CHANTEYS  AND   BALLADS 

SEA  -  CHANTEYS,  TRAMP  -  BALLADS 
AND  OTHER  BALLADS  AND  POEMS 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  HARRY  KEMP 

THE  PASSING  GOD.     Poems 
JUDAS.     A  Play 
THE  CRY  OF  YOUTH.     Poems 
JOHN  MERLIN.     Forthcoming  Autobiographic 
Novel 


CHANTEYS  AND  BALLADS 

SEA-CHANTEYS,  TRAMP-BALLADS 

AND  OTHER  BALLADS 

AND  POEMS 


BY 

HARRY  KEMP 


NEW  YORK 
BRENTANO'S 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,    1920,    BY 
BRENT  A  NO'S 

All  rights  reserved 


THE-PLIMPTON -PRESS 
NORWOOD- M ASS     U     S     A 


DEDICATED  TO 

RICHARD  LEGALLIENNE 

WHO  HAS  DEVOTED  A   LIFE-TIME   OF   ARTISTRY  TO  THE 

MAINTENANCE   OF  THE   HIGH  TRADITION 

OF   ENGLISH   SONG 


4391 9 i 


I 


N  bringing  out  these  poems  in  book  form 
acknowledgments  are  due  to  the  following 
magazines:  Adventure,  Ainslee's,  The  Century, 
Collier's,  The  Daily  Citizen  (London), 
Everybody's,  The  Forum,  The  International, 
The  Independent,  House  and  Garden,  Live 
Stories,  McClure's,  Munsey's,  The  Masses, 
The  New  Review,  The  Parisienne,  The  People's 
Magazine,  The  Popular  Magazine,  The  Quill, 
The  Saturday  Evening  Post,  Snappy  Stories, 
The  Smart  Set,  Telling  Tales,  The  Thrill 
Book,  The  Twentieth  Century  Magazine. 


TO  MY  READERS 

AT  was  in  my  youth  and  my  cany  twenties, 
at  a  time  when  I  was  thoroughly  mad  for  life 
and  whetted  keen  in  every  nerve  for  picaresque 
adventure  and  a  man's  romance  at  sea,  that  I 
went  through  the  varied  experiences  from  which 
finally  sprang  these  songs  and  ballads. 

For  it  was  not  till  long  after  I  had  left  off" 
going  to  sea  and  tramping  on  land  that  I  gained 
the  power  to  give  them  forthright  expression  in 
song.  The  tumult  and  reality  were  too  near  me 
as  yet.  I  had  not  acquired  the  necessary  per 
spective.  I  could  as  soon  have  cut  my  heart  out 
and  held  it  up  for  people  to  look  at,  as  have 
sung  them  then.  Now,  and  only  after  years  of 
comparative  settling  down,  have  my  experiences 
ripened  into  maturity  and  achieved  the  incar 
nation  of  the  present  word. 

Since  those  days  of  tramping  and  of  sea-life, 
my  mode  of  existence  has  immeasurably  changed. 
So  much  so  that  at  times  my  former  life  seems 
only  a  far  dream,  or  something  I  must  have 
imagined. 

All  the  technicalities  of  ships  and  things  have 
dropped  through  my  mind  into  a  forgetting  as 
through  a  net  that  holds  only  big  fish  and  lets 
the  little  escape  .  .  .  the  unimportant  has  been 
lost,  the  everlasting  aspects  remain.  .  .  . 


TO  MY   READERS 

For  still  the  Shine  and  Heave  of  the  sea 
itself  overpowers  me  the  same  as  of  old  —  the 
beloved  ocean  pouring  in  tremendously  from  all 
its  four  horizons.  Again  I  feel  the  way  seamen 
feel  and  act.  Again  there  comes  to  me  the 
breathing  night  full  of  gulfs  of  over-leaning 
stars  .  .  .  those  wide  dawns  and  sunsets  with  no 
land  in  sight,  that  are  a  spiritual  experience  in 
themselves  .  .  .  again  there  comes  to  me  richly 
the  strange,  inarticulate  growth  of  soul  and  heart 
and  mind  that  intimate  experience  of  sea  and 
sky  brings  to  them  who  learn  and  love  the  life 
of  those  who  go  down  to  sea  in  ships  .  .  .  again 
I  find  the  immortal  meaning  of  it  all.  .  .  . 

Rolling  freights,  jails,  vermin,  ships  at  sea, 
rough  foVsle  companionships,  —  I  am  gladder 
for  these  things  than  for  all  that  I  have  since 
learned  from  classrooms  and  from  books.  .  .  . 

For  only  when  a  chap  is  down  to  the  buff  and 
hanging  on  to  the  ragged  edge  of  things  does  he 
get  glimpses,  through  peep-holes  of  hard  work, 
suffering,  and  humility,  into  men's  naked  souls. 

As  for  my  chants  and  ballads  out  of  the  Bible, 
a  word  of  explanation  will  suffice:  once  when  I 
was  being  held  over  in  jail  for  a  fairly  extended 
period,  for  a  crime  which  I  did  not  commit 
(which  is  neither  here  nor  there)  ...  at  a  time 

C6] 


TO   MY   READERS 

when  I  was  tramping  —  I  had  an  only  book  with 
me,  a  Bible.  And  I  found  it  a  real  live  book, 
full  of  men  and  women  who  had  the  color  of  the 
earth  in  their  words  and  lives  and  thoughts. 
Possessing  this  Bible  not  through  piety  but  by 
accident,  I  found  power  and  poetry  in  those  old 
shepherds  and  prophets  and  kings  that  move 
and  breathe  in  its  pages.  .  .  . 

And  Christ  walking  about  Judea,  along  the 
roads,  and  from  inn  to  inn,  somehow  got  into 
my  soul,  together  with  his  honest  fishermen- 
apostles  .  .  .  and  so  the  New  Testament  Life, 
as  well  as  that  of  the  Old,  also  became  a  part  of 
actual  contemporary  life  for  me,  just  as  much  as 
the  campfires  I  sat  about  or  the  other  tramps  I 
consorted  with. 

HARRY  KEMP 


CONTENTS 

To  MY  READERS 5 

CHANTEYS 13 

FO'C'SLE  COMRADESHIP 14 

A  SEAMAN'S  CONFESSION  OF    FAITH 15 

THE  REMEDY 16 

THERE'S  NOTHING  LIKE  A  SHIP  AT  SEA 18 

A  SHINING  SHIP 20 

GOING  DOWN  IN  SHIPS 22 

THE  SHIP  OF  DREAMS 24 

A  WHALER'S  CONFESSION 27 

THE  GIRL  THAT  MARRIED  ANOTHER  MAN 29 

THE  DOLDRUMS 30 

GOOD-BYE 32 

THE  CHANTEY  OF  THE  COOK 34 

AT  SEA  I  LEARNED  THE  WEATHER 37 

CLIPPER  DAYS 38 

THE  STEAMBOAT  SAILOR'S  REPLY 40 

THE  OLD  SAILOR'S  REMEDY 43 

THE  SAILOR'S  FAREWELL 45 

THE  FOG 46 

A  SAILOR'S  LIFE 47 

JIM 48 

SHANGHAIED 49 

THE  SAILOR'S  RETURN 50 

THE  ENDLESS  LURE 51 

SAILORMEN 53 

THE  WRECK 54 

THE  STORM 55 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  SAILOR 56 

WIND-JAMMER'S  SONG 57 

THE  CHANT  OF  THE  DERELICT 59 

SEASIDE  TALKERS 63 

SAID  THE  CAPTAIN  TO  ME 64 

THEN 65 

THE  BEACH  COMBER 66 

THE  BALLAD  OF  ENGLISH  JOHN,  THE  BUCCANEER  67 

A  CARIBBEAN  FANTASY 69 

BUCCANEER  DAYS 70 

GHOST-SONG  OF  THE  SPANISH  BUCCANEERS 72 

WHEN  THRAN  WAS  KING 74 

THERE  WAS  A  LITTLE  QUEEN  IN  EGYPT 76 

THE  CHANTEY  OF  NOAH  AND  His  ARK 78 

WHEN  HAM  AND  SHEM  AND  JAPHET  — 81 

THE  CHANTEY  OF  JONAH 83 

HESPERIDES 89 

RECOLLECTION 90 

I'VE    DECKED   THE   TOPS 92 

JAIL,  A  TRAMP  RHYTHM 93 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY 94 

BALLAD  OF  COMPLAINT  AGAINST  THE  VAGRANT 

LIFE 95 

THE  SCARECROW  WOMAN 97 

THE  CALL 98 

RIDING  BY  NIGHT 100 

THE  RETURN 101 

EXPERIENCE 103 

A  TRAMP'S  PRAYER 105 

THE  WILD  BIRD  .  .  .  : 106 


MARCH  NIGHT 107 

LET  ME  BE  STILL  LIFE'S  FOOL 108 

Go  TELL  THE  LYING  WORLD 109 

GOD'S  BACCHANTE 1 10 

STAR-FACTS 1 1 1 

MIDNIGHT 112 

TRANSMUTATION 113 

RAIN-SADNESS 114 

MOON-DAWN 115 

THE  CRY  OF  MAN 1 16 

TOWARDS  DAWN 117 

WHY? 118 

BLIND 119 

AUTUMN  TWILIGHT 120 

THE  WIND'S  LIFE 121 

LIGHTNING 122 

THE  DAWN 123 

WONDER 1 24 

TRANSIT  GLORIA 125 

To  ONE  WHO  SAID  HE  WAS  BORED  WITH  LIFE  .  126 

EXUBERANCE 127 

THE  HUMMING  BIRD 128 

TELL  ALL  THE  WORLD 129 

WIND-MAGIC 130 

THE  CHANTEY  OF  THE  GALILEAN  FISHERMAN.  .  131 

CHANT  OF  THE  WIDOW'S  MITE 134 

THE  GOING  OF  His  FEET 135 

LAZARUS  SPEAKS 137 

THE  ANGEL'S  ANTHEM 139 

THE  UNREPENTANT  THIEF 140 


A  RHYME  OF  Two  WAYFARERS 141 

THE  PLAYMATE 142 

A  CHANTEY  OF  GROWING  GREEN  THINGS 143 

THE  RHYME  OF  THE  PRODIGAL 145 

THE  RHYME  OF  THE  ELDER  BROTHER 147 

A  FANTASY  OF  HEAVEN 150 

HIGHWAYMAN'S  SONG 151 

THE  MADMAN 153 

THE  DEAD  LOVER 155 

THE  DISEMBODIED 156 

TRUTH  AND  LIE 157 

THE  BOOTH  OF  HAPPINESS 158 

UNNUMBERED  WORLDS 159 

THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 160 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  LIVING  DEAD 161 

THE  GAME  WARDEN'S  SON 163 

THE  BETRAYAL 164 

HE   DID    NOT    KNOW l68 

THE  FIDDLER 169 

STREET  LAMPS 170 

A  POET'S  ROOM 171 

FAREWELL 1 73 


CHANTEYS 

JL  HESE  are  the  songs  that  we  sing  with  crowd 
ing  feet, 

Heaving  up  the  anchor  chain, 
Or  walking  down  the  deck  in  the  wind  and  the 

sleet 
And  in  the  drizzle  and  rain. 

These   are   the  songs   that   we  sing   beneath   the 

sun, 

Or  under  the  stars  of  night, 
And  they  help  us  through  with  the  work  to  be 

done 
When  the  moon  climbs  into  sight. 

These  are  the  songs  that  tell  our  inmost  hopes 

While  we  pull  and  haul  a-main, 
The  bo'sun  booming  as  we  lean  with  the  ropes, 

And  we,  bringing  in  the  refrain. 


FO'C'SLE  COMRADESHIP 


T, 


HERE'S  not  much  in  the  fo'c'sle  of  a  ship 
But  old  seaboots   and  chests  that  stand  in  rows 
While  up  above  a  smoky  lantern  glows, 
And   hanging  from  their  pegs  the  oilskins  drip. 
Sometimes  in  storms  the  water  washes  in; 
Sometimes  we  stifle  for  a  breath  of  air; 
Yet  somehow  comradeship  gets  being  there 
And     common     hardship     makes     the     stranger 

kin.  .  .  . 

Blood-brothers  we  become,  but  not  in  peace,  — 
Still  ready  to  exchange  the  lie  and  blow; 
Just  like  the  sea  our  quarrels  rise  and  cease: 
We've  never  a  dull   moment   down   below.  .  .  . 
But  set  upon  us  in  a  tavern  brawl 
You'll  find  that  you  will  have  to  fight  us  all. 


CI43 


A   SEAMAN'S  CONFESSION  OF   FAITH 


A 


S  long  as  I  go  forth  on  ships  that  sail 
The  mighty  seas,  my  faith,  O  Lord,  won't  fail; 
And  while  the  stars  march  onward  mightily 
In  white,  great  hosts,  I  shall  remember  Thee; 
I  have  seen  men  one  moment  all  alive, 
The  next,  gone  out  with  none  to  bless  or  shrive 
Into  the  unseen  place  where  all  must  go,  — 
So,  Lord,  thy  mercy  and  thy  gifts  I  know.  .  .  . 
They  think  me  Godless,  maybe,  but  indeed 
They  do  not  see  how  I  have  read  thy  creed 
In  flowing  tides  and  waves  that  heave  and  run 
Beyond  the  endless  west  where  sinks  the  sun; 
In  the  long,  long  night-watches  I  have  thought 
On  things  that  neither  can  be  sold  nor  bought, 
Rare,  priceless  things;    nor  have  I  scorned  nor 

scoffed 

At  thy  sure  might,  when  lost  in  storms  aloft: 
The  prayer  and  faith  of  seamen  will  not  fail 
O  God,  my  God,  as  long  as  ships  do  sail. 


THE  REMEDY 

VV  HEN    you've    failed    with    ordered    people, 

when  you've  sunk  neck-deep  again 
In  the  sluggish  wash  and  jetsam  of  the  slackened 

tides  of  men, 
Don't   get   old    and    mean    and    bitter,  —  there's 

a  primal  remedy  — 
Just   take   a  ship   to  sea,   my   lad,  just    take  a 

ship  to  sea. 

There  are  shipmen  grey  and  aged  but  still    full 

of  ancient  mirth, 
And    they    drew   their   joy   of  living,    not   from 

rooting  in  the  earth, 
But  from  striking  out  forever  with  a  sail  that's 

never  furled 
And   by  seeing   all  the  oceans   and   the  wonder 

of  the  world; 
In   the   dim,    Phoenician   days    and   in   the    wild 

sea-times  of  old 
Do  you  think  they  only  voyaged  for  the  red  of 

shining  gold? 
No,  they  slid  beyond  the  sky-line  for  they  felt 

it  good  to  be 
On  a  ship  that  tramped  with  thunder  down  the 

highways  of  the  sea. 


When   you've   drunk   the   lees   of  failure,    when 

you've  fought  and  never  won, 
When  you've  cursed  the  stale  recurrence  of  the 

certain,  weary  sun 
And  the  daily,  fruitless  struggle  pledging  youth 

for  usury, 
Come,    and    cast    the    world    behind    you,    and 

take  ship  for  open  sea; 

All  you'll  need  will  be  your  dunnage  and  your 

knife  upon  your  hip, 
And  you'll  find   a  bunk  that  waits  you  in  the 

foVsle  of  a  ship, 
And   you'll    find   the   wind    about   you   and   the 

everlasting  sky 
Leaning  huge  from  four  horizons  as  the  flying 

scud  blows  by  — 
And  you'll  find  the  ancient  healing,  ever  waiting, 

ever  free, 
That  all  men  have  found  forever  in  the  sailing 

of  the  sea. 


THERE'S   NOTHING   LIKE   A   SHIP 
AT   SEA 

THREE    SONGS    OF    SHIPS 

J_  HERE'S  nothing  like  a  ship  at  sea  with  all 

her  sails  full-spread 
And  the  ocean  thundering  backward   'neath  her 

mounting  figurehead 
And   the   bowsprit    plunging   starward    and   then 

nosing  deep  again. 
"There's  nothing   like   a   ship   at   sea,"   sing  ho, 

ye  sailormen. 

Oh,  a  little  wayside  tavern  is  a  jolly  thing  to  know 
Where  there's  mugs   and   waiting  tables  and   an 

open  fire  a-glow; 
And  it's  good  to  have  a  song  to  sing  at  work  as 

well  as  play; 

And    it's    pleasant    to    have    memories    of    boy 
hood's  yesterday; 
And   they  say  a   tried  companion  walking  down 

an  endless  road 
Makes    the    heavy    footfall    lighter,    shares    the 

burden  of  the  load.  .  .  . 
And  I  see  my  sweetheart  walking  with  her  head 

held  proud  and  high 
And  I  wish  that  I  was  with  her  where  the  bells 

ring  in  the  sky.  .  .  . 


But  there's   nothing  like  a  ship  at  sea  with  all 

her  sails  full-spread 
And     the    ocean     thundering    backward     'neath 

her  mounting  figurehead. 
Oh,  it's  once  you  be  a  sailor  you  must  go  to  sea 

again. 
" There's  nothing  like   a  ship   at  sea,"  sing  ho, 

ye  sailormen. 


A  SHINING  SHIP 


H 


.AVE  you  ever  seen  a  shining  ship 
Riding  the  broad-backed  wave, 
While  the  sailors  pull  the  ropes  and  sing 
The  chantey's  lusty  stave? 

Have   you   ever  gazed   from  a   headland's  reach 

Far  out,  into  the  blue, 
To  glimpse,  at  first  a  flashing  mote 

That  to  a  tall  ship  grew, 

A  full-sailed  ship  on  the  great,  broad  sea 

Heel-down  and  bearing  home 
All  the  romance  from  Homer's  days 

To  now,  across  the  foam? 

For,  purple-white  in  rippling  dusks, 

Or  edged  with  sunset's  fire,  - 
Behold,  each  ship  is  a  phantom  ship 

That  bears  the  World's  Desire!  .  .  . 

O  merchant,  merchant  seeking  wares 

That  tip  full-laden  beams, 
The  Living  God  has  made  your  fleets 

His  argosies  for  dreams, 


C20] 


Far-riding  argosies  that  go 
With  bearded  men  and  strong 

To  the  world's  ends  for  merchandise 
And  come  back  —  bearing  Song! 

Legends  and  songs  of  Happy  Isles 

And  fairy  realms  a-far 
Beyond  the  windless  gates  of  dawn 

And  the  white  morning  star! 


GOING  DOWN  IN   SHIPS 

rOING  down  to  sea  in  ships 
Is  a  glorious  thing, 
Where  up  and  over  the  rolling  waves 
The  seabirds  wing; 

Oh,  there's  nothing  more  to  my  neart's  desire 

Than  a  ship  that  goes 
Head-on  down  through  marching  seas 

With  streaming  bows; 

Would  you  hear  the  song  of  the  viewless  winds 

As  they  walk  the  sky? 
Come  down  to  sea  when  the  storm  is  on 

And  the  men  stand  by. 

Would  you  see  the  sun  as  it  walked  abroad 

On  God's  First  Day? 
Then  come  where  dawn  makes  sea  and  sky 

A  gold  causeway. 

Oh,  it's  bend  the  sails  on  the  black  cross-yards 

For  the  day  dies  far 
And  up  a  windless  space  of  dusk 

Climbs  the  evening  star.  .  .  . 

Now  there's  gulf  on  foaming  gulf  of  stars 

That  lean  so  clear 
That  it  seems  the  bastions  of  heaven 

Are  bright  and  near 

C22] 


And  that,  any  moment,  the  topmost  sky 

May  froth  and  swim 
With  an  incredible  bivouac 

Of  seraphim.  .  .  . 

O  wide-flung  dawn,  O  mighty  day 

And  set  of  sun!  .  .  . 
O  all  you  climbing  stars  of  God, 

Oh,  lead  me  on!  ,  . 

Oh,  it's  heave  the  anchor,  walk  and  walk 

The  capstan  'round  — 
Far  out  I  hear  the  giant  sea's 

World-murmuring  sound! 


[23 


THE  SHIP  OF  DREAMS 


SHI: 


[P  drawing  furrows  of  following  foam 
Leaning  down  shoreward  out  of  the  sky, 
What  are  the  dreams  you  are  carrying  home, 

What  are  the  dreams  that  you  bring  us  to  buy? 
"You   may   purchase   your   fill,   you   may   have 

what  you  will" 
The  Great  Ship,  leaning,  made  her  reply, 

"For  I  bear  all  cargoes  here  in  my  hold 
As  down  the  ways  of  the  sky  I  dance, 

Chests  of  ebony,  plates  of  gold, 

The  High  Adventure,  The  Great  Romance, 

The  One  True  Love  that  you've  long  dreamed  of, 

The  Single  Throw  Of  The  Dice  Of  Chance; 

The  Riches  you  seek  and  the  Fame  you've  pursued, 
The  Joy  of  the  Sweet,  Vine-Trellised  Cot, 

And  every  dream  wherewith  you've  endued 
The  hopes  of  Man  in  his  earthly  lot, 

But  in  the  end,  my  friend,  my  friend, 

You've  got  to  pay  for  the  Dream  you've  sought." 

The  Ship  swept  on  like  a  moving  cloud 

In  tier  on  tier  of  heavenly  white, 
Singing  with  great  winds,  thunder-bowed, 

The  joy  of  the  ocean,  the  waves'  delight, 
While  climbing  high  in  the  rocking  sky, 
Her  mariners  went  up,  small,  from  sight.  .  .  . 

C243 


Then  the  people  came  crowding  from    field    and 
town 

To  see  the  Ship  of  Their  Dreams  come  in, 
Through  highway  and  byway  pouring  down 

They  made  a  noise  like  a  market's  din, 
The  Rich  and  The  Poor,  The  Gentle  and  Boor, 
The  Glad  and  The  Sad,  The  Fat  and  The  Thin: 

For  there's  never  a  person  but  has  his  dream 
Or  who  has  not  sent  his  heart  a-far 

Where  the  moving  hills  of  the  Ocean  gleam 
Beyond  the  reach  of  the  harbour-bar 

Whence  the  day  is  born,  a-new,  each  morn 

Preceded  by  the  morning  star.  .  .  . 

The  traffic  of  unlading  began, 

From  the  holds'  last  depths  the  merchandise 

came; 
They  crowded  closer,  woman  and  man, 

Each  answering  to  his  echoed  name: 
And  they  bore  away,  the  Sad  and  the  Gay, 
Their  bundles  of  woe  and  joy  and  shame. 

The  Poet  got  his  fame  —  and  his  crust, 
The  Statesman  achieved  his  empty  height, 

The  Miser  clutched  his  ignoble  dust, 

The  Conqueror's  crown,  it  shone  so  bright 

That  his  eyes  were  blind  to  the  storm  behind 

And    the    pit    that    yawned    at    his    feet    forth 
right.  .  .  . 

C253 


Now  rose  a  wailing  that  grew  and  grew, 
"Nay,  this  is  not  as  our  hope  did  seem; 

We  have  gained  a  thing  we  never  knew!" 

Then  answered  a  Voice,  "Aye,  so  ye  deem?  .  .  . 

Yet  to  each,   as  he  lives,  the  Captain  gives,  — 

And     for    the     Dream,    The     Reward    Of    The 
Dream!  ..." 

And  yet  full  many  were  jocund  there, 
And,  singing,  bore  their  burdens  away, 

For  they  knew  that  the  Captain  had  trafficked 

fair, 
And  they  had  no  word  of  cavil  to  say  — 

As  away  from  the  rout  the  Ship  drew  out 

Till  it  hung,  like  a  star,  on  the  edge  of  the  day. 


C263 


A  WHALER'S  CONFESSION 

A  HREE  long  years  a-sailing,  three  long  years 

a-whaling,     ' 
Kicking  through  the  ice  floes,  caught  in  calm 

or  gale, 
Lost  in  flat  Sargasso  seas,  cursing  at  the  prickly 

heat, 

Going    months    without    a    sight    of    another 
sail. 

I've  learned  to  hate  the  Mate,  and  I've  always 

cursed  the  Captain. 
I    hate    the    bally    Bo'sun,  and    all    the    bally 

crew, 
And,    sometimes,    in    the   night-watch,    the   long 

and  starry  night-watch, 

Queer  thoughts  have  run  wild  in  my  head  - 
I've  even  hated  you! 

You,    that    have   been    my   shipmate   for   fifteen 

years  of  sailing, 
From  Peru  to  Vladivostock,  from    England    to 

Japan.  .  .  . 
Which  shows  how  months  of  sailing,  when  even 

pals  go  whaling, 
Can  get  upon  the  bally  nerves  of  any  bally 


11*7:1 


I'm  glad  our  nose  points  homeward,  points  home 

again  to  Bristol,  - 
I'm  glad  for  Kate  who's  waiting,  far  down  a 

little  lane: 
I'll  sign  her  for  a  long  cruise,   a  longer  cruise 

than  this  one, 
And    seal    the    bargain    like   a   man,   before    I 

sail  again. 

Yes,  I  will  still  go  sailing;    yes,  I  will  still  go 

whaling: 
I've  done  a  lot  of  thinking  along  of  love  and 

hate.  .  .  . 
For  signing  on  a  woman's  a  cruise  that  lasts  a 

lifetime  - 

And    I'd    rather   hate    a    hundred    crews   than 
take  to  hating  Kate! 

Three    long   years   of   whaling  .  .  .  yes,    a    life 
time  sailing,. 
Kicking  through  the  ice  floes,  caught  in  calm 

or  gale, 
Lost  in  flat  Sargasso  seas,  cursing  at  the  prickly 

heat, 

Going    months    without    a    sight    of    another 
sail! 


£28] 


THE  GIRL  THAT  MARRIED 
ANOTHER  MAN 


O 


'H,  it's  easy  come  and  it's  easy  go 
With  most  of  the  little  girls  I  know,  — 

Haul  away,  my  bullies; 
And  when  you  come,  and  when  you  part, 
They  never  take  it  deep  to  heart,  — 

Haul  away,  my  bullies. 
Oh,  there  was  Martha,  at  Liverpool, 
She  never  heard  of  the  Golden  Rule,  — 

Haul  away,  my  bullies; 
And  there  was  Gulla,  the  Temple  Girl, 
And  Minnie,  and  Marie,  and  Pearl,  — 

Haul  away,  my  bullies, 
In  Rotterdam,  Marseilles,  Orleans,  — 
And  each  of  'em  taught  me  what  love  means; 

Haul  away,  my  bullies  .  .  . 
But  there  is  a  girl  that  stands  apart, 
I  can  never  get  her  out  of  my  heart,  — 

Haul  away,  my  bullies; 

OH,     I    TRY    TO     FORGET,     BUT    I     NEVER    CAN, 
THE   GIRL   THAT   MARRIED   ANOTHER   MAN  — 

Haul  away,  my  bullies! 


£29] 


THE  DOLDRUMS 

A    STILL-LIFE    PICTURE 

A  HE  sails  hang  dead,    or   they    lift    and    flap 

like  a  cornfield  scarecrow's  coat, 
And  the  seabirds  swim  abreast  of  us  like  ducks 

that  play,  a-float, 
And  the  sea  is  all  an  endless   field  that  heaves 

and  falls  a-far 
As    if   the    earth   were    taking    breath    on     some 

strange,  alien  star, 
For    there    are    miles    and    miles    of   weed     that 

tramp  around  and  'round 
Till   a  fellow's  tempted  to  step  out   and    try  if 

it's  the  ground. 
And,  sometimes,  when  we  strike  a  space    that's 

clear  of  wild  sea-grass 
Our  faces  look  up  true  and  smooth   as    from  a 

looking  glass  - 
For  unwrinkled  as  a  baby's  smile  the  ocean  lies 

about 
And   a   pin  would   break   in   ripples   if  we  only 

cast  one  out.  .  .  . 
But   the  skipper   isn't   happy   for  there's   not   a 

wind  that  blows,  - 
And  beware  the  Mate's  belaying  pin  as  up  the 

deck  he  goes, 
For  the  ship,  she's  rolling,   rolling  like  a  nigger 

on  a  spree 

C30] 


\nd    the   cargo's    almost   shifted    as    we   wallow 

in  the  sea 
Because,    out    somewhere    miles    away    a    storm 

is  waking  hell.  .  .  . 
\nd  up  smooth  lifts  of  bubbling  weed  we  ride 

the  rolling  swell.  .  .  . 
3h,  each  inch  of  us  is  crawling  with  the  itch  of 

prickly  heat; 
*Ve   can   hear  our  own    blood    throbbing   like   a 

Chinese  tom-tom's  beat 
\nd   we   catch    a   voice   that's   lifted,    though    it 

hardly  seems  in  prayer  — 
.t's    the    poor    old    cook    that's    cursing    in    the 

boiling  galley  there.  .  .  . 
3h,  the  region  of  the  doldrums,  for  the  devil  it 

was  made 
\nd  all  decent  seamen  hate  it  as  they  pray  for 

winds  of  trade 
\.s  they  flounder  toward  the  trade-winds  where 

the  sails  lift  full  and  free 
\nd  once  more  the  prow  runs  onward  foaming 

through  the  open  sea. 


GOOD-BYE! 

A  CHANTEY  TO  BE  SUNG  AT  THE  CAPSTAN 

(jOOD-BYE  to  Dirty  Kate's  saloon 

(Walk  'er  round) 
As  we  slither  past  the  last  sand  dune. 

(Walk  'er  round 

We're  outward  bound). 

Good-bye  to  all  our  friends  in  town 

(We're  outward  bound) 
Our  FRIENDS  —  while  we  had  half  a  crown. 

(Walk  'er  round 

We're  outward  bound) 

Good-bye  to  the  rum  that  scrapes  like  wire, 

(Walk  'er  round) 
And  whiskey  with  its  claws  of  fire. 

(Walk  'er  round 

We're  outward  bound) 

Good-bye  to  the  gravestones  on  the  hill 

(We're  outward  bound) 
Above  the  town  where  we  got  our  fill  — 

(Walk  'er  round 

We're  outward  bound) 

CsO 


Our  fill  of  the  kind  that  cry  "give,  give!" 

(Walk  'er  round) 
Of  the  people  that  say  "we've  got  to  live!" 

(Walk  'er  round 

We're  outward  bound).  .  .  . 

Good-bye,  till  we  come  to  get  trimmed  again; 

(We're  outward  bound) 
For  it's  always  the  way  with  sailormen! 

(Walk  'er  round 

We're  outward  bound) 

For  there's  something  about  this  going  to  sea 

(Walk  'er  round) 
That  makes  a  fellow  big  and  free. 

(Walk  'er  round 

We're  outward  bound) 

So  lean  on  your  bars  and  walk  'er  round 

(We're  outward  bound) 
There's   a   good   stiff  wind,    and   we're  outward 

bound!  .  .  . 
Thank  God,  boys,  we're  outward  bound! 

(Walk  'er  round 

We're  outward  bound) 


C333 


THE  CHANTEY  OF  THE  COOK 

DITHYRAMB    OF   A   DISCONTENTED    CREW 


T 


HE    Devil    take    the  cook,    that    old,   grey- 
bearded  fellow, 
Yo  ho,  haul  away! 

Who  feeds  us  odds  and  ends  and  biscuits  whisk 
ered  yellow. 
(And  the  home  port's  a  thousand  miles  away.) 

The  Devil  take  the  cook,  that  dirty  old  duffer, 

Yo  ho,  haul  away! 
Each  day  he  makes  the  captain  fatter  and  bluffer, 

(But  we'll  have  to  eat  hardtack  for  many  a 
day). 

The    ship-biscuit's    mouldy    and    the    spuds    we 

get  are  rotten, 
Yo  ho,  haul  away! 
And  the  tinned  goods  that's  dished  up  is  seven 

years  forgotten, 
Yo  ho,  haul  away! 

And   each,   in   his   heart,   has   marked   the   cook 

for  slaughter, 

(And  it  won't  do  him  any  good  to  pray). 
For    the    coffee's    only    chickery    half-soaked    in 

luke-warm  water, 
Yo  ho,  haul  away! 

C34H 


It's   put  on  your  best   duds   and   join   the  dele 
gation; 

Yo  ho,  haul  away! 
We're     aft     to    ask    the    captain    for    a    decent 

ration, 
(And  to  drop  the  cook  at  Botany  Bay.  .  .  .) 

Look   here,   you   cabin    boy,   what   has   set   you 

laughin'  ? 

Yo  ho,  haul  away! 
Don't  tell  us  no  lies  or  we'll  clout  your  ears  for 

chaffin', 

For  we're  not   a   lot  of  horses   that   can   live 
on  hay. 

What's  this  you're  tellin'?     Is  it  plum  duff  and 

puddin'? 

Yo  ho,  haul  away! 
Why  not  make  it  roast  beef  and  let  it  be  a  good 

'un? 

For    plum    duff    and    rum's    not    a    feast    for 
every  day. 

Oh,  it  ain't  the  cook's  fault  that  we  EAT  one  day 

in  seven. 

Yo  ho,  haul  away! 
ilt's  the  owners  of  the  ship,  —  may  they  never 

get  to  heaven 
(No  matter  how  hard  they  pray). 


It's  the  owners  of  the  ship  that  give  us  meat  that's 

yellow, 

Yo  ho,  haul  away! 

And  after  all  the  cook's  a  mighty  decent  fellow 
(Though    we'll    have    to    eat    rotten    grub    for 
many  a  day). 

O  Lord    up   in    heaven,   when  THEIR  souls   and 

bodies  sever, 
Yo  ho,  haul  away! 

May  the  owners  squat  in  hell  gnawing  at  salt- 
horse  forever 
And  the  grub  that  they  give  us  every  day.  .  .  . 

Excepting  for  one  thing,  O  Lord  God  in  heaven, 

Yo  ho,  haul  away! 
Don't  let  them  have  no  plum  duff  one  day  in 

seven, 

(All  together  with  great  vigor) 
But  forever  and   forever  and   unto  eternity  the 

truck  that  we're  fed  on  every  day,  Amen! 


AT  SEA  I  LEARNED  THE  WEATHER 


AT 


sea  I  learned  the  weather, 
At  sea  I  learned  to  know 
That  waves  raged  not  forever, 
Winds  did  not  ever  blow. 

I  learned  that,  'mid  the  thunder, 
Was  nothing  might  avail 

But  lying  to  and  riding 
The  storm  with  scanted  sail, 

Knowing  that  calm  would  follow 
Filled  full  of  golden  light 

Though  hail  and  thunder  deafened 
The  watches  of  the  night. 

And,  now  today  I'm  sailing 
The  changing  seas  no  more, 

But  tied  up  to  a  woman 
And  snug  and  safe  ashore, 

With  pipe  and  'baccy  handy 
And  Sal  still  loving  me  — 

I  tell  you  that  I'm  thankful 
For  things  I  learned  at  sea! 


i 


CLIPPER  DAYS 

A    SONG    FROM    SNUG    HARBOUR 

An  Old  Sailor  to  A  Young  One 


AM  eighty  year  old  and  somewhat, 
But  I  give  to  God  the  praise 
That  they  made  a  sailor  of  me 
In  the  good  old  Clipper  Days 

When  men  loved  ships  like  women, 

And  going  to  sea  was  more 
Than  signing  on  as  deckhand 

And  scrubbing  a  cabin  floor, 

Or  chipping  rust  from  iron 

And  painting  .  .  .  and  chipping  again. 
In  the  days  of  Clipper  Sailing 

The  sea  was  the  place  for  men: 

You  could  spy  our  great  ships  running 

White-clouded,  tier  on  tier; 
You  could  hear  their  trampling  thunder 

As  they  leaned  to,  racing  near; 

And  it  was  "heigh  and  ho,  my  lad," 
And  "we  are  outward  bound," 

And  we  sang  full  many  a  chantey 
As  we  walked  the  capstan  round, 

£38] 


And  we  sang  full  many  a  chantey 
As  we  drove  through  wind  and  wet 

To  the  music  of  Five  Oceans 

Ringing  in  my  memory  yet.  .  .  . 

Go  drive  your  dirty  freighters 
That  fill  the  sky  with  reek,  — 

But  we  —  we  took  in  sky-sails 
High  as  a  mountain-peak; 

Go,  fire  your  sweaty  engines 
And  watch  your  pistons  run,  — 

We  had  the  winds  to  serve  us, 
The  living  winds,  my  son, 

And  we  didn't  need  propellers 

That  kicked  a  mess  about, 
But  we  hauled  away  with  chanteys 

Or  we  let  the  great  sails  out.  .  .  . 

And  I'm  eighty  year  old  and  somewhat 
And  I  give  to  God  the  praise 

That  they  made  a  sailor  of  me 
In  the  good  old  Clipper  Days! 


THE  STEAMBOAT  SAILOR'S  REPLY 

T    CAN'T  talk  back  to  you,  Daddy,  but  give  me  a 

•*•     word  or  two: 

Things   change,   and  the  world  goes   onward,   and 

there 's  always  something  new 
In  spite  of  the  Wise  Kings  saying  (to  God  be  all 

the  praise), 
And  men  still  seek  out  new  things  and  search  for 

better  ways. 


I  grant  there's  nothing  finer   than   a   full-rigged 

ship  at  sea 
With  the  rising  moon  behind  her,  or  the  sinking 

sun  a-lee, 
But  there's  also  naught  surpasses  the  unceasing 

engine  room 
Where  the  harnessed   fire   and   lightning  pushes 

onward  through  the  gloom 
And  the  living  rods  and  pistons  plunge  with  a 

continued  might 
While  a  hundred  golden  port-holes  go  a-sweeping 

down  the  night,  - 
And    the    furnaces,    red-flaring,    with    the    small, 

black  shapes  close  by 
Of   the    men    that    feed    their    hunger:     let    the 

Strength  of  Them  reply!  .  .  . 


We  don't  roll  and  wait  the  wind's  will,  nay,  we 

go  our  constant  ways 
Where  you  lay,  becalmed  and  cursing,  in  those 

Good  Old  Clipper  Days; 
We  go  trailing  smoky  banners  round  the  world 

and  back  again; 
Tide  and  wind,  they  wait  upon  us  and  obey  the 

will  of  men. 
With    the    strength    of    many    horses    now    the 

milky-turning  screw 
Beats    the   wave-bulk   to   submission    as   we   lift 

and  thunder  through; 
Head-on   to   the   wind   we   labour,   we   defy   the 

tempest's  will 
Where  you  rode  bare-stripped,  or  waited  for  the 

hollow  sails  to  fill; 
We  make  ports  you   never  thought  of,  we  hail 

coasts  you  never  knew, 
We  go   ramming  up   wide   rivers   like   an   ocean 

to  the  view, 
We  go  in  and  out  of  islands  where  the    reefs    lie 

under  hand,  - 
We  began  the  Great  Surrender  of  the  Wind  to 

Man's  Command, 
When  big  wing-spread  ships  will  wander  down 

the  reaches  of  the  clouds, 
And  they  won't  need  steam  as  we  do,  as  we  don't 

need  sails  and  shrouds, 


And   they'll   climb   the   top   of  heaven   with   ten 

cargoes  to  our  one, 
And  their  tracks  will  reach  from  sunrise  to  the 

setting  of  the  sun.  .  .  . 
And,  sometime,  I'll  maybe  sit  here,  full  of  age, 

and  sing  the  praise 
In  the  ears  of  young  air-sailors  Of  the  Good  Old 

Steamboat  Days! 


£42:1 


THE  OLD  SAILOR'S   REMEDY 

HEN  love  is  driving  hard  ahead 

Through  squall  on  gusty  squall 
There's  nothing  like  a  ship  at  sea 

With  masts  square-rigged  and  tall  .  .  . 
Jack  swears  that  he  will  never, 

He  will  never  love  again: 
(They've  nosed  the  ship  from  harbour 

Through  the  grey,  enormous  rain); 
Jim  vows  that  he  will  never 

Look  again  in  Mary's  eyes: 
(And  both  of  them  believe  their  oaths  — 

Yet  what  they  swear  is  —  lies!) 
Oh  Billy  and  his  girl  were  out 

For  many  a  doleful  day: 
The  only  remedy  for  all 

Was  for  to  sail  away, 
To  sail  away,  to  sail  away 

Forgetting  girls  and  love 

Where,    white     as     new-washed     sheep,     the 
waves 

Crowd  onward,  drove  on  drove.  .  .  . 

Oh,  heave  the  rattling  anchor  up 

And  walk  the  capstan  round  - 
They've  left  the  god  of  love  behind, 

They're  free,  and  outward  bound.  .  0  . 


One  day  ...  and  two  .  .  .  the  ocean  sweep* 

And  curdles  at  the  prow  - 
Then  comes  a  pull  to  Billy's  mouth 

A  pucker  to  Jim's  brow, 
And  Jack,  he  climbs,  disconsolate, 

To  reef  the  sails  above  - 
They're  thinking,  Oh,  they're  thinking 

Of  the  little  girls  they  love.  .  .  . 
It  isn't  very  long  before 

The  ship's  a  secret  flame 
As  every  seaman,  night  and  day, 

Repeats  some  woman's  name, 
And,  as  they  holystone  the  deck, 

Or  chip  the  rust,  or  paint, 
The  things  they  didn't  like  in  them 

Seem  virtues  of  a  saint: 
Oh,  some  say  this,  and  some  say  that 

When  sweethearts  don't  agree  — 
But  I  say  KEEP  THE  GIRLS  AT  HOME 

AND    SHIP   THE    LADS   TO    SEA. 


C443 


Oi 


THE   SAILOR'S   FAREWELL 

A   CHANTEY 


!H,  what  will  you  do,  my  own  love, 
When  you  go  down  to  sea? 

—  I'll  pull  upon  the  halyards 
At  portside  and  at  lee. 

And  is  there  nothing  else,  love? 

—  I'll  climb  the  whistling  shrouds 
And  sing,  and  take  in  sky-sails 

Away  up  in  the  clouds. 

There's  something  you've  forgotten!  .  . 

-  I'll  walk  my  watch  by  night 
While  all  the  stars  of  heaven 
Lean  over,  height  on  height. 

Is  this  the  way  you  leave  me? 

0  love,  you  break  my  heart! 

—  I've  hugged  you  and  I've  kissed  you, 
How  else  may  lovers  part? 

If  you  have  nothing  better!  .  .  . 

—  I'll  wear  upon  my  breast 
The  picture  that  you  gave  me 

And  say  your  love  is  best. 

At  halyards  and  at  sky-sails, 

At  watch,  both  night  and  day!  .  .  . 

AT    LAST   YOU'VE    SAID   THE    RIGHT   WORDS 

1  WANTED   YOU   TO    SAY? 


THE   FOG 


TH: 


'E  fog  fell:    lamps  were  filled  and  lit; 
They  glimmered  in  mid-day,  - 
And,  step  by  step,  men  went  abroad 
Into  a  world  all  grey. 


A  SAILOR'S   LIFE 


o 


'H,  a  sailor  hasn't  much  to  brag  — 
An  oilskin  suit  and  a  dunnage  bag. 
But,  howsoever  humble  he  be, 
By  the  Living  God,  he  has  the  sea! 

The  long,  white  leagues  and  the  foam  of  it, 
And  the  heart  to  make  a  home  of  it, 
On  a  ship  that  kicks  up  waves  behind 
Through  the  blazing  days  and  tempests  blind. 

Oh,  a  sailor  hasn't  much  to  love  — 
But  he  has  the  huge,  blue  sky  above, 
The  everlasting  waves  around, 
That  wash  with  an  eternal  sound. 

So  bury  me,  when  I  come  to  die, 

Where  the  full-sailed,  heeling  clippers  ply; 

Give  up  the  last  cold  body  of  me 

To  the  only  home  that  I  have  —  the  sea! 


w, 


JIM 


E  couldn't  make  him  out:   he  seldom  spoke; 
We  never  caught  him  smiling  at  a  joke  — 
And  yet  he  was  a  decent  lad  for  work: 
On  watch  or  off,  he  was  the  last  to  shirk  — 
So  that,  among  ourselves,  we  came  to  say, 
"Jim,  he's  alright,  he's  only  got  his  way." 
Yet,  somehow,  in  each  storm  he  didn't  care. 
His  life  or  death  seemed  only  God's  affair  — 
So  when  the  cry  came,  in  a  Nor'west  Blow, 
"Man  overboard!"  we  each  one  seemed  to  know; 
From  the  main  topsail  yardarm  he  had  gone 
Into  the  boiling  seas  .  .  .  the  ship  held  on; 
There  was  no  saving  him  in  such  a  gale. 
Then,  when  the  dawn  came,  wide,  and  grey,  and 

pale, 

We  brought  his  sea-chest  aft  with  all  it  stored 
(The  custom  when  a  man  goes  overboard). 
It  held  the  usual  things  that  sailors  own; 
But,  at  the  bottom,  in  a  box,  alone, 
We  found  a  woman's  picture  —  and  we  knew, 
Now,  why  he'd  been  so  offish  with  the  crew  — 
He'd  written  it  as  plain  as  plain  could  be  — 
"She  went  and  married  HIM  instead  of  me!" 


C48] 


SHANGHAIED 

SHANGHAIED!  .  . .  i  swore  ra  stay  ashore 

And  sail  the  wide,  wide  seas  no  more!  .  .  . 

Shanghaied!  shanghaied! 
Shanghaied  —  with  pals  I've  never  known, 
And  my  heart's  as  heavy  as  a  stone.  .  .  . 

Shanghaied!  .  .  .  shanghaied! 

Yes,  here's  the  wide,  grey  sea  again 

And  the  work  that  takes  the  souls  from  men, 

Shanghaied!  .  .  .  shanghaied! 
Yes,  yon's  the  mist  they  call  the  shore, 
And  here  are  the  ropes  I  must  haul  once  more  — 

Shanghaied!  .  .  .  shanghaied! 

Shanghaied  —  and  on  a  ship  I  hate, 

With  a  cur  for  a  captain,  a  brute  for  a  mate.  .  . 

Shanghaied!  .  .  .  shanghaied! 
Oh,  when  I  set  my  foot  ashore 
I'll  drink  no  more  .  .  .  and  I'll  sail  no  more! 

Shanghaied!  Shanghaied! 


C493 


THE  SAILOR'S  RETURN 


o 


'H  love  of  mine,  what  shall  I  do 
When  your  ship  comes  sailing  home 
With  its  white  sails  in  the  sky 
And  its  wake  all  white  with  foam. 

—  Meet  me  at  the  silent  bend 
Where  the  river  runs  to  sea; 

Have  the  cottage  fire  a-glow, 
Kettle  on  the  hob  for  me. 

There's  a  kettle  on  the  hob 
And  the  fire  is  a-light. 

—  Set  a  lamp  to  guide  me  in, 

I  might  come  when  it  is  night. 

Nay,  I  have  my  bride-dress  on, 
Nothing  can  my  vow  undo,  — 

They've  bound  me  to  another  man, 
To  another,  not  to  you. 

—  Sweetheart,  what  is  that  to  me  ! 
I  will  neither  bless  nor  ban  .  .  . 

My  body's  fifty  fathom  down; 
I'm  a  ghost,  and  not  a  man! 


THE  ENDLESS  LURE 

W  HEN  I  was  a  lad  I  went  to  sea 
And  they  made  a  cabin  boy  of  me. 

(Yo  ho,  haul  away,  my  bullies) 
We'd  hardly  put  out  from  the  bay 
When  my  knees  sagged  in  and  my  face  turned 
grey; 

So  I  went  to  the  captain  and  I  implored 

That  he'd  let  the  pilot  take  me  aboard, 

And  fetch  me  back  to  the  land  again 

Where  the  earth  was  sure  for  the  feet  of  men.  .  .  . 

But    the   Captain,   he   laughed   out    strong,    and 

said, 

"You'll  follow  the  sea,  lad,  till  you're  dead; 
For  it  gets  us  all  —  the  sky  and  the  foam 
And  the  waves  and  the  wind,  —  till  a  ship  seems 

home." 

When  I  shipped  as  an  A.  B.  before  the  mast 
I  swore  each  voyage  would  be  my  last.  .  .  . 
Was  always  vowing,   and  meant  it,  too, 
That  I'd  never  sign  with   another  crew.  .  .  . 

You  tell  me  "The  Castle"  is  outward  bound, 
An  old  sky-sailor,  for  Puget  Sound? 


CsO 


"Too    old!"  .  .  .  but    I    know    the    sea    like    a 

book.  .  .  . 
Well,  I've  heard  that  your  "Old  Man"  needs  a 

cook!  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  could  rustle  for  twenty  men.  .  .  . 
So,  God  be  praised,  you  can  use  me,  then?  .  .  . 
Oh,  there's  only  a  few  years  left  for  me, 
And  I  want  to  die,  and  be  buried  at  —  sea! 


C52] 


SAILORMEN 

W  HEN     our    ship     gets    home     again,    after 

cruising  up  and  down, 
Where   the  old,   familiar  hills   crowd   above  the 

little  town, 
Oh,  we'll  reef  the  weary  sails  in  the  shelter  of 

the  bay, 
And  we'll  find  it  just  the  same  as  the  hour  we 

went  away 
With    the    steeple    of   the    church    through    the 

tree  tops  peering  out, 
With    the    same    accustomed    streets,    and    the 

friends  we  knew,  about. 

Oh,  we'll  sit  before  the  hearth  and  we'll  smoke 
a  pipe  or  so, 

And  we'll  have  a  pot  of  ale  at  the  inn  before 
we  go, 

And  we'll  kiss  the  prettiest  girls,  and  we'll  tell 
the  children  tales 

Of  the  countries  that  we've  seen,  of  the  ship 
wrecks  and  the  gales, 

Till  the  cargo's  battened  down,  and  we're  out 
ward  bound  once  more 

While  the  sea  goes  rushing  back  to  the  far, 
receding  shore. 


CS3] 


THE  WRECK 


s 


EARED   bone-white  by  the  glare  of  summer 

weather, 

Cast  side-long,  on  the  barren  beach  she  lies, 
She    who    once    brought    the    earth's    far    ends 

together 
And  ransacked  East  and  West  for  merchandise. 

The  sea-gulls  cluster  on  her  after-deck 

Resting    from    the   near    seas    that   wash    and 
fall.  ,  .  . 

But,  I  have  heard,  at  night  this  side-cast  wreck 
(When  all  the  belfry  bells  at  midnight  call) 

Puts  up  sail  and  goes  out  past  mortal  seeing: 
Once  more  the  oceans  break  beneath  her  will 

And   she  resumes  the  breath  of  her  old  being; 
She  lives  the  dreams  that  slumber  in    her  still. 

Thrilling  as  down  the  windy  Dark  she  slopes, 
Ecstatic,  as  her  sails  grow  great  with  wind  — • 

She  feels  the  seamen  walking  with  her  ropes, 
The  harbour  dropping  like  a  star  behind. 


C54H 


THE  STORM 


T, 


HE  sea  rose  and  the  crests  swept  by 
Like  clouds  of  white,  close-flying  birds 
And  the  wind  drove  from  sky  to  sky 
The  waves'  illimitable  herds; 

And,  though  a  thousand  miles  from  land, 

We  heard  innumerable  feet, 
A  motion  and  commingled  sound 

Like  routed  armies  in  retreat. 


n  55  3 


THE  SHIPWRECKED   SAILOR 

HERE  blossomed  into  golden  day  another 
rosy  morn: 

The  shipwrecked  sailor  woke,  and  watched 
again,  of  hope  forlorn, 

From  his  high,  purple-misted  peak,  a  rag  about 
his  hip: 

His  only  dream,  his  native  land  —  his  only 
prayer,  a  ship! 

The  fringe  of  surf  laced  in  and  out  along  the 
shell-strewn  shore; 

Beside  the  reef  strange  creatures  sailed  plying 
a  sentient  oar, 

And,  great  and  wide,  the  sea  rolled  far  in  azure 
distance  dim 

And  laved  the  edges  of  the  sky  with  its  blue- 
washing  rim. 

The  sailor  thought  of  paven  streets  in  a  far, 
smoky  town 

Where  day  and  night  the  cable-cars  went  boom 
ing  up  and  down: 

Each  little  common  thought  of  men  smote 
through  him  like  a  dart, 

And  memories  of  a  woman  winged  like  white 
birds  through  his  heart. 


WIND-JAMMER'S  SONG 

1845.     CLIPPER   DAYS 

2\LL  hands  on  deck,  below  there! 

The  storm  is  coming  soon, 
The  clouds  tramp  on  in  panic 

Across  the  swirling  moon. 

The  wind  pipes  in  the  halyards, 
We  lean  with  scanted  sail; 

Now,  with  a  leap,  we're  riding 
The  first  rush  of  the  gale; 

The  lubbers  in  their  cabins 
Crouch  close  and  pray  for  life: 

The  young  man  free  and  single, 
The  old  man,  by  his  wife; 

And  one  would  give  his  fortune, 
And  one,  his  love  so  fair, 

For  solid  earth  to  stand  on 
If  but  a  furlong  square. 

It's  up  the  shrouds,  my  hearties, 
And  reef  the  gansells  tight,  — 

The  blow  that  we  are  having 

May  blow  the  world  from  sight.  . 


Tomorrow,  lads,  the  landsmen, 
How  they  will  strut  and  lie,  — 

And  we  —  we'll  squirt  tobacco 
And  wink  the  other  eye, 

Saying,  as  we  plunge  onward 
With  tier  on  tier  of  sail  — 

"I've  seen  worse  in  my  time,  sir, 
Yet  —  'twas  a  proper  gale!" 


C58] 


THE  CHANT  OF  THE   DERELICT 


D 


RIFTING,  drifting  here  with  the  tide 
While  the  seams  that  the  sea-weeds  caulk  gape 

wide 
Like  a  star  with  eternity  for  its  bride 

I  accept  the  measureless  sea  - 
While  trampling  oceans  break  in  foam 
Comb  over  phosphorescent  comb 

Over  and  over  me. 

Driven,  driven  at  the  wind's  will 
Through  dawns  and  midnights  far  and  still 
While  the  sun,  as  huge  as  the  top  of  a  hill, 

Heaves  from,  sinks  in,  the  Main,  — 
To  the  north,  to  the  south,  to  the  east,  to  the 

west 
I  plunge  and  plunge  my  blackened  breast 

And  turn  and  turn  again. 

And  ever  I  dream  of  the  shifting  feet 

Of  seamen  above,  and  the  whistle  sweet  — 

Though  the  driving  rain  and  the  wind   and  the 

sleet  - 

Of  the  bo'sun  that  calls  in  storm.  .  .  . 
And    the     ships     that     I    have    known    in    the 

Past 

Grow,  full-sailed,  on  the  ghostly  blast, 
Form  over  swelling  form.  .  .  . 


Thank  God  that  I,  though  black-decayed, 
Through  the  broken  path  of  the  moon  still  wade 
Or  where  dawns  like  shimmering  silks  invade 

The  drab  of  the  eastern  skies,  - 
That  still  I  wallow  through  trembling  stars 
And  shatter  them  into  silver  bars 

Where  a  Way  of  Wonder  lies,  - 

I,  a  Derelict,  broken  and  vast, 
By  every  wave  that  lips  me  cast 
Till  I  think  each  lift  will  be  my  last 

Ere  I  sink  to  the  depths  below, 
Where  a  thousand  comrades,  strewn  along, 
Made  brave  by  legend  and  tale  and  song 

Wait,  coral-grown,  in  a  row.  .  .  . 

Tis  said  that  they've  charted  me,  marked  me 

down 

As  a  drifting  thing  of  ill-renown 
By  the  varying  tides  and  breezes  sown 

In  the  paths  of  orderly  ships,  - 
I,  who  have  carried  their  India  wares, 
And,  running  about  the  world's  affairs, 

Have  met  all  seas  at  grips! 

Alas,  for  the  thankless  heart  of  Man, 
That,  full  of  service,  the  Survey's  ban 
Should  fall  on  me  who,  full-rigged,  ran 
From  edge  to  edge  of  the  sky.  .  .  . 


But,  ah,  I  shall  speak  once  more  with  a  ship 
A  great,  wide-sailed,  down-bearing  ship 
Ere  I  take  my  doom  and  die,  - 

And  I  shall  know  one  large  embrace 

As  I  meet  a  comrade  face  to  face 

While  she  comes  at  a  stately,  star-lit  pace 

Over  the  moon-calm  sea,  — 
Surprising  her  with  the  sudden  drift 
And  the  ancient,  loving,  weed-grown  lift 

Of  this  poor  old  body  of  me.  .  .  . 

Oh,  ever  I  dream  of  the  tread  of  feet 

And  the  sound  of  the  bo'sun's  whistle  sweet 

And  so  I  am  glad,  I  am  glad  to  greet 

The  unwary  ships  that  pass,  — 
Though    they    come   on    me    like    the   hiss   of 

hail 
That  rides  the  top  of  a  grey-maimed  gale 

And  tinkle  like  breaking  glass; 

For   to   me   they    are   love,    to   me   they   are 

life 

And  a  long-sought  woman  taken  to  wife 
After  courtship's  dallying  strife,  - 

Alas,  that  they  sink  in  the  sea! 
But  'tis  the  fault  of  the  ghosts  that  steer, 
Not  mine,  that  they  are  cloven  sheer, 

By  the  high,  gaunt  sides  of  me! 


Drifting,  drifting  here  with  the  tide 

While  the  seams  that  the  sea-weeds  caulk  gape 

wide 
I  wait,  I  wait  for  the  full  broadside 

Of  the  wave  that  will  bring  my  doom 
When  I'll  sink  at  last,  to  lurch  endlong, 
Myself  a  memory  and  a  song,  - 

Asleep  in  the  great,  green  gloom! 


T, 


SEASIDE  TALKERS 

PROVINCETOWN,    SUMMER    OF    1917 


HEY  drank  the  bitter,  salt  wine  of  the  sea, 
They  breathed  up  drowning  bubbles  from  below 
While  we  sat  in  the  storm's  red  after-glow 
Discussing  Art  and  Love  —  and  sipping  tea. 
I  was  a  poet,  he,  an  artist;    she, 
A  famous  actress  .  .  .  lightly  to  and  fro 
We  shuttled  epigrams  as  salesmen  show 
Rich  silks  that  change  in  colors  momently. 

And  while  the  fishers  clung  to  planks  and  spars 
And  rode  the  huge  backs  of  the  waves,  we  sat 
Beneath  a  young  night  full  of  summer  stars: 
And  we  discussed  of  life  this  way  and  that 
Until  we  felt,  when  we  arose  for  bed, 
That  there  was  nothing  left  had  not  been  said. 


SAID  THE  CAPTAIN  TO  ME 

OTHING  but  damn  fools  sail  the  sea," 
Said  the  Captain  to  me. 

"I  have  a  young  son,"  says  the  Captain  to  me, 
"I'm  damned  if  he  ever  shall  sail  the  sea!" 


£64] 


THEN 

VV  HEN  all  the  sea's  high  ships 

Have  dropped  beyond  my  sky 
And  life's  trumpet  leaves  my  lips 
And  women  pass  me  by  — 
Dear  God,  let  me  die! 


THE   BEACH  COMBER 

'D  like  to  return  to  the  world  again, 
To  the  dutiful,  work-a-day  world  of  men,  — 
For  I'm  sick  of  the  beach-comber's  lazy  lot, 
Of  the  one  volcano  flaming  hot, 
With  the  snow  round  its  edge  and  the  fire  in  its 

throat, 

And  this  tropical  island  that  seems  a-float 
Like  a  world  set  in  space  all  alone  in  the  sea.  .  .  . 
How  I  wish  that  a  ship,  it  would  stop  for  me. 
I'm  sick  of  the  brown   girl  that  loves  me,   I'm 

sick 
Of  the  cocoanut  groves,  —  you  can't  take  me  too 

quick 
From  this  place,   though   it's  rich  in  all  nature 

can  give.  .  .  . 

For  I  want  to  return  where  it's  harder  to  live, 
Where   men   struggle   for   life,   where   they  work 

and  find  sweet 
Their   rest    after   toil,    and    the    food    that    they 

eat.  .  .  . 
What?     A  ship's    in    the   offing?  .  .  .  dear  God, 

let  me  hide,  - 

They're  in  need  of  a  sailor,  are  waiting  the  tide 
To  put   off?  ...     I   will   hide   where   the   great 

cliff  hangs  sheer  - 
Give  'em  mangoes  and  goats,  and  don't  tell  'em 

I'm  here! 

C66] 


THE   BALLAD  OF  ENGLISH  JOHN, 
THE  BUCCANEER 


i 


DIDN'T  think  that  I'd  be  caught, 

But,  midway  in  the  fight, 
A  score  of  Spaniards  bore  me  down 

And  covered  me  from  sight,  - 
Then,  on  my  feet,  I  found  my  arms 

Drawn  backward,  bound  and  tight. 

They  dragged  me  down  below  in  chains, 

They  feared  to  set  me  free; 
I  lay  there  in  the  drip  and  slime 

And  listened  to  the  sea; 
They  gave  me  bread  I  couldn't  eat, 

And  rats  ran  over  me. 

I  dreamed,  to  wake  —  and  dream  again 

Of  wild,  free  ocean  ways,  - 
My  life  grew  big  before  me  like 

A  spark  that  makes  a  blaze.  .  .  . 
We  seemed  to  sail  for  endless  nights 

And  weary,  endless  days. 

At  last,  "get  up,  you  Englishman," 
I  heard  ...  a  torch  flared  red.   .   .  . 

One  booted  at  my  rattling  ribs, 
One  bashed  me  in  the  head.  .  .  . 

"My  friends,  I  hope  we  meet  in  hell," 
Were  all  the  words  I  said. 


They  rode  me  inland  to  Madrid 

A-rolling  in  a  cart; 
They  threw  me  out  and  broke  my  arm 

That  couldn't  break  my  heart,  - 
And  I  sat  up  and  cursed  all  Spain 

In  bower  and  hall  and  mart. 

They  dragged  me  to  a  scaffold,  next; 

Though  ended  now  my  play, 
Yet,  in  my  final  scene  of  life, 

I  stood  up  in  the  day: 
I  kicked  the  hangman,  laughed  at  death, 

Which  made  the  ladies  gay: 

The  ladies  whispered,  "it's  a  shame," 

(Each  fluttering  her  fan) 
"Aye,  it's  a  shame  his  life  must  fall 

Beneath  the  hangman's  ban!" 
And  each  one  thought  within  her  heart 

I  was  a  proper  man. 


[683 


A  CARIBBEAN  FANTASY 

OAILING  the  Caribbean  Main 
In  the  latter  days  of  Spain 
Through  amber  deeps  I  could  behold 
Great  galleons  bright  with  sunken  gold. 
My  boat,  of  quaintest  mother-of-pearl, 
Was  steered  by  my  brown  Indian  girl. 
We  saw  ships  with  their  rigging  down 
Go  limping  to  Havanna  Town, 
Beaten  and  faint  from  English  stour 
In  the  red  wane  of  Spain's  last  power,  — 
Ships  under  blue  and  purple  sails 
And  weighted  down  with  spicy  bales. 
I  looked  on  them  and  "Love,"  quoth  I, 
"What  profits  it  to  do  and  die?- 
Better  to  dream  with  an  Indian  Girl 
In  a  ship  of  pearl,  on  a  sea  of  pearl. " 


C693 


BUCCANEER  DAYS 

JL  HERE  were  a  host  of  galleons  in  the  wild 

sea  days  of  yore 
Whose  spacious  holds  were  heavy-wombed  with 

tons  of  sunny  ore. 
Their    ammirals,    primal-hearted    men,    who    cut 

men's  throats  with  tears, 
Wore  rainbow  sashes  round  their  loins  and  gold 

rings  in  their  ears, 
And   for   the    English    buccaneers    they    kept    a 

weather  eye 
As  the  gaunt   and  savage  wolf  holds  watch  for 

the  eagle  from  the  sky. 

Oh  brave  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,    he    who    crushed 

the  Spanish  power, 
The  Great  Queen  kissed  him  at  the  Court  and 

killed  him  in  the  Tower, 
The  captains  and  the  ammirals,  some  strangled 

'neath  the  foam, 
And  some  were  buried  with  acclaim  and  elegy  at 

home. 
Above  their  final  dwelling  place  a  visored  figure 

lies 
With    pious    Latin    epitaph    and    hands    crossed 

Christianwise. 
The    fleet    ships,     having    known    their    times, 

rotted  in  bight  and  bay, 


Or  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  —  and  naught 
remains  today 

Of  the  first  great  youth  of  England  and  the 
haughty  prime  of  Spain 

But  a  broken  bolt,  a  blunderbuss,  and  a  grin 
ning  skull  or  twain. 


GHOST-SONG  OF  THE  SPANISH 
BUCCANEERS 

VV  E  are  the  Spanish  Buccaneers,  none  braver 

ever  died,  - 
We    waded    through    five    hells    of    sand    with 

nothing  but  our  pride, 
Our   Spanish    pride    and   our   lust   for   gold    and 

nothing  else  beside. 

Oh,   ever   our    fevered    nights   were    hung    with 

strange  new  stars  a-swim 
As  we   mixed   barbaric   litanies   with   credo   and 

with  hymn, 
While  every  morn  an  alien  dawn  flared  up  the 

desert's  rim.  .  .  . 

One  noon  we  glimpsed  a  shining  lake  that  silver- 
lit  the  plain; 

But  trees  grew  nigh  it  upside-down,  then  right- 
side-up  again,  - 

And  we  knew  it  was  the  Devil's  lie,  and  prayed 
to  God  for  rain; 

And  once  we  saw   a   fleet  of  ships  that    sailed 

along  the  sand 
Where  a  sea  that  never  was,  broke  white  on  a 

dim,  dissolving  strand,  - 
And  we  prayed  to  Christ,   as  children  do,   and 

trudged  on  hand  in  hand.  .  .  . 


Oh,  ever  the  Cities  of  Cibola,  we  saw  them  in 

our  sleep: 
Their  climbing  tops  sat  in  the  sky  like  clouds 

piled  heap  on  heap, 
And  we  laughed   apart  like  madmen,  each  with 

his  own  dream  to  keep.  .  .  . 
And,  though  we  never  got  to  them,  but,  one  by 

one,  sank  down, 
The    Seven    Cities    of    Cibola    belie    not    their 

renown, 
But,  somewhere,  yet,  they  wait  our  quest,  each 

star-encircled  town! 


WHEN  THRAN  WAS   KING 

VIKING    SONG 

In  memory  of  Theodore  Roosevelt 

HERE  was  never  rust  on  the  oarlocks 

When  Thran  was  king; 
Our  ships  were  as  swift  as  swallows 

On  dipping  wing; 
There  was  never  rust  on  the  spearhead 

Nor  on  the  sword 
When  Thran,  that  mighty  viking, 

Was  over-lord. 
How  we  shouted   at  the  oar-sweeps 

As  down  the  day 
Our  beaked  prows  clove  asunder 

Their  foamy  way.  .  .  . 

Multitudinous  as  armies 

That  bivouac  wide 
The  stars  they  camped  about  us, 

And  the  great  tide 
Was  powdered  golden  with  them 

Till  we  beheld 
That  naught  was  true  but  Magic 

And,  wonder-spelled, 
We  knew  Romance  was  greater 

Than  Fact  can  say 
As  the  dawn  set  us,  golden, 

In  golden  day.  .  .  . 

C743 


Oh,  there  were  lands  to  greet  us 

Fringed  round  with  foam 
That  almost  slew  forever 

All  thoughts  of  home; 
Oh,  there  were  copper  women 

In  isles  sun-trod 
Who  bent  down  low  before  us, 

Each  man,  a  god; 
And  there  were  ancient  cities 

That  loomed  alone 
Each  shining  tower  a  ruby, 

A  gem,  each  stone.  .  .  . 

Yea,  weVe  come  back  to  Norland, 

Now  Thran  has  died, 
To  men  who  love  their  bellies 

And  naught  beside, 
Who  think  that  we  are  children 

And  smile  askance, 
Daring  not  drink  the  vintage 

Of  High  Romance.  .  .  . 
Aye,  fat  smoke  wreathes  the  cottage; 

There's  much  to  eat: 
You've  full  grain  from  the  harvest, 

YouVe  good  red  meat  — 
But,  though  you  call  us  madmen, 

We'll  ever  sing 
Of  the  great  years  of  wonder 

When  Thran  was  king! 


THERE  WAS  A  LITTLE  QUEEN  IN 
EGYPT 

GALLEY-SLAVE    CHANTEY 

Sung  at  the  Oars 

HERE  was  a  little  Queen  in  Egypt, 
(Long,  a  very  long  time  ago) 
—  Fell  in  love  with  a  Roman  Captain; 

(It's  chill  and  bleak,  but  the  wind  must  blow), 

She  had  a  thousand  girls  to  serve  her; 

(We've  left  the  jettied   port  behind) 
The  weight  of  all  her  rubies  tired  her, 

(But  when  were  chains  of  iron  kind?) 

They  cooked  ten  wild  boars  for  her  dinner, 
(Bring  on,  bring  on  your  mouldy  bread) 

And  brought  them  in  on  golden  platters, 
(Yo  ho!  the  open  sea's  ahead!) 

Her  slaves  played  all  night  long  on  zithers, 
(And  we  must  row  and  row  till  dawn) 

And  She  and  her  Captain  loafed  in  purple, 
(And  we've  but  tattered  loin-clothes  on). 

Wine  red   and  white  it   flowed   like  rivers.  .  . 

(And   it's  brackish  water  we  get   to  drink) 
The  world  was  a  tossed-up  ball  between  'em, 

(These  long  nights  make  a  fellow  think). 

C76] 


They  say  they  tossed  the  ball  and  they  lost  it, 
(The  stars  will  be  coming  pretty  soon) 

That  now  they  lie  on  a  windy  headland, 

( —  Wish    that    was    the    sun    instead    of   the 
moon). 

They  say  that  they  sleep  and  sleep  forever, 
(While  we  pull  hard  in  the  wind  and  Wet), 

Laid  forever  away  in  the  darkness, 

(And  it's  precious  little  sleep  we  get)  — 

Side  by  side  in  the  empty  silence  - 
O  Queen  of  Egypt,  O  Captain-King, 

We,  slaves,  and  chained  to  our  oars,  salute  you! 
God  was  good  and  you  had  your  fling! 


C773 


THE  CHANTEY  OF  NOAH  AND  HIS 
ARK 

Old  Father  Noah,  be  built  him  an  ark.  .  . 
Roofed  it  over  with  hickory  bark 


o, 


OLD    SCHOOL    SONG 


'H,  Noah  went  up   to  the  hills,    a  just  man 

and  a  good, 

(Yo  ho,  lads,  the  rain  must  fall), 
He  built  an  Ark,  the  Good  Book  says,  of  pitch 

and  gopher  wood; 

(And  the  water,  it  tumbles  over  all). 
The  children  danced  before  him,  and  the  Grown 
ups  laughed,  behind; 
They  thought  that  there  was  something  wrong 

with  Goodman's  Noah's  mind.  .  .  . 
And    when    they    met    him    coming    back    for 

needments  and  supplies, 
The    dancing    girls    and    dancing    men    leered, 

mocking,  in  his  eyes,  — 
And  as  he  left  the  town  once  more  and  sought 

the  hillward  track, 
The  boys  sent  shouts  and  whistles  shrill  behind 

the  old  man's  back. 
Oh,  Noah  took  the  animals  and  saved  them,  two 

by  two; 
The  elephant,  the  leopard,   and  the  zebra,   and 

the  gnu, 

C78  3 


The  goose,  the  ox,  the  lion,  and  the  stately  unicorn 
That  breasted  up  the  gangway  with  his  single, 

jaunty  horn, 

The  hipporgriff,  the  oryx, — all  created  things,  in  fine, 
Till  the  dim   procession   straggled   from  the  far 

horizon  line. 
There    was    neighing,    squealing,    barking,    there 

was  many  a  snort  and  squeak, 
Every    sound    that    God    gives    animals    because 

they  cannot  speak; 
And  they  waddled  and  they  straddled,  and  they 

ambled,  and  they  ran, 
And  they  crawled  and  traipsed  and  sidled,  each 

one  after  nature's  plan. 
There  was  pattering  of  hooves  and  toes   and   lift 

of  hairy  knees  — 
Oh,    it    was    the    greatest    cattleboat    that    ever 

sailed  the  seas.  .  .  . 
There  was  never  any  showman  ever  gave  such 

a  parade 
As   those   beasts,  that  wended   arkward,  for  the 

gaping  people  made; 
And    Noah's    townsmen    wished    him    well    who 

once  had  wished  him  ill  - 
For    they    hoped    he    planned    a    circus    on    his 

solitary  hill 
Where   he'd   charge   so   much    admission    at   the 

ark's  red-postered  door  — 
Offering  such  a  show  as  mankind  never  set  eyes 

on  before.  .  .  . 


But  the  sky  grew  dark  with  thunder  throbbing 

like  an  angry  drum 
And  the  gazers  saw  with  terror  that  the  thing 

they'd  mocked  had  come, 
And   that  what  had  seemed   a  circus  marching 

slowly  in  parade 
Was   the   end   of   all    creation    and    the   world's 

last  cavalcade. 
Oh,  the  lightning  dangled  nearer  like  a  madman's 

rattling  chain.  .  .  . 
As  an  army  moves  to  battle  came  the  growing 

sound  of  rain: 
And   it   rained  .  .  .  and   rained  .  .  .  and  rained 

.  .  .  and  rained  ...  as  we  do  understand, 
Till  the  earth  was   filled  with  water  and  there 

wasn't  any  land! 

OH,  NOAH  WAS  A  JUST  MAN,  A  JUST  MAN  AND  A 
GOOD.  .  .  . 

(YO  HO,  LADS,  THE  RAIN  MUST  FALL) 
HE  BUILT  THE  ARK,  THE  GOOD  BOOK  SAYS,  OF 

PITCH  AND  GOPHER  WOOD, 
(AND  THE  WATER,  IT  TUMBLED  OVER  ALL). 


WHEN  HAM  AND  SHEM  AND 
JAPHET  - 


Wi 


A    SAILOR  S    SONG 


HEN  Ham  and  Shem  and  Japhet 

They  walked  the  capstan  round 
Upon  the  strangest  vessel 

Was  ever  outward  bound, 
The  music  of  their  voices 

From  wave  to  welkin  rang: 
They  sang  the  first  sea-chantey 

That  seamen  ever  sang: 
They  sang  of  towns  they'd  been  to, 

Of  girls  that  they  had  known, 
Of  what  they'd  done  as  children, 

Of  how  the  years  had  flown, 
Of  fights  they'd  had,  and  friendships, 

Of  many  a  hearty  spree  - 
The  same  as  every  sailor 

That  sails  upon  the  sea.  .  .  . 

Now  Noah,  he  was  sitting 

Alone  and  glum,  below, 
A-puzzling  just  a  little 

Why  things  were  ordered  so, 
(For,  though  his  soul  accepted 

What  God  commanded,  still, 
At  times  he  knew  misgivings 

As  every  good  man  will)  - 


When  up  above  he  heard  them 

A-singing,  outward  bound, 
And  walking,  walking,  walking, 

Walking  the  capstan  round,  — 
Then,  just  as  quick,  his  worry, 

Passed,  like  a  gust  of  wind, 
And  he  shinned  up  the  ladder 

And  left  his  doubts  behind, 
And,  with  his  great  beard  flowing, 

His  grey  robe  pulled  a-skew, 
He  walked  the  capstan  with  them; 

He  started  singing,  too! 


C82] 


THE  CHANTEY  OF  JONAH 

JL  HEY'D  amulets  and  written  charms,  they'd 

little  gods  of  stone, 
And  teraphim  of  ivory  and  wood  and  polished 

bone; 

They'd  images  of  ebony  and  images  of  jade 
That  swarthy  seamen  worshipped,  following    the 

Tarshish  trade; 
The  Captain's  god  was  Merodach,  all  wrought 

of  beaten  gold, 
And  richer  than  the  merchandise  they  treasured 

in  the  hold 
The    First    Mate    held    his    silver    Baal  ...  a 

polished  stick  of  wood 
The  ring-eared   Ethiopian  owned,   and   swore  it 

did  him  good,  — 
And  twice  a  day  they  knelt  to  pray  and  knock 

their  heads  and  groan 
Before  their  gold  and  ivory,  their  silver,  wood, 

and  stone. 
The  sea  was  like  a  shield  of  blue  to  the  horizon's 

rim 
As  forth  they   put  from  Joppa  with   their  gods 

and  teraphim,  — 
With  that  one  bearded  man  aboard  who  down 

the  gangway  trod 
So  swift  in  haste  for  Tarshish  he  forgot  to  bring 

his  god.  .  .  . 


"By     Merodach,"     the     Captain     swore,     who 

walked  the  deck  alone, 
"He  hasn't  even  got  a  god  of  common  wood  or 

stone!" 
"Now    by    my    silver    Baal,"    swore    the    Mate, 

"he's  bold,  to  go 

Without  a  god  to  kneel  before  when  storms  be 
gin  to  blow!"  .  .  . 
The  savage  black  man  pitied  him  in  case  a  wind 

should  rise 

And    wash    the    hissing    waters    up    against    be 
leaguered  skies; 
But   Jonah    laughed    and   went   below,   when   he 

was  snug  aboard, 
Assured  that  he'd  out-sped,  at  last,  the  Presence 

of  The  Lord: 
What  though   the  doom  of  Nineveh   hung  dark 

upon  the  air, 
He    cast    the    prophet's    robe    aside,    and    slept, 

and  did  not  care. 
Then   God   sent   forth   a  wind   to  sea  to  search 

His  Prophet  out: 
The  tackles  creaked,  the  oars  were  shipped,  the 

seamen  clumped  about; 
The    waves,    that    flashed    like    fire    abaft    and 

tumbled  with  a  roar, 
Were  crowding  on  the  deck  in  heaps  and  coming 

more  and  more; 


Their  curling  tops  were  lifted  sheer  and   pelted 

through  the  air.   .  .  . 
And  then  the  Wind  sped  back  to  God,  and  said, 

"Thy  Man  is  there!" 
And    God    sent    forth    another    wind,    a    greater 

Wind  by  far, 
That    twisted    like    a    twig   of  tree   both   sturdy 

mast  and  spar,  - 
And  THAT  wind  came,  and  said  to  Him,     "Thy 

Man  indeed  is  blind 
That   thinks,    by   going   down    to   sea,    he's    left 

Thee,  Lord,  behind!" 
"Oh,  yet   a  little   while,"  quoth   God,   "and    he 

shall  ponder  well 
The  Shadow  of  my   Hand  spreads  black  above 

the  Red  of  Hell, 
The    Shadow   of   my    Hand    is    cast    on    utmost 

wastes  of  sea, 
And  even  huge  Leviathan  before  my  wrath  must 

flee,  - 
And    there   is    nothing   lives    at    all   without   the 

aid  of  Me!" 
The   Negro    knelt    before   his    Stick   and    prayed 

with  clicking  tongue. 
Each   man   unwrapped   his  little  god   and   to  its 

succour  clung  — 
(Each  little  god  of  ebony,  and  jade,  and  wood, 

and  stone, 


Each    image    made    of    ivory,    and    shaped    of 

polished  bone) 
In  vain  the  Mate  made  oaths  to  Baal,  in  vain 

the  Captain  told 
Of  what  an  altar  he  would  build  to  please  his 

god  of  gold; 

The  water  flew  up  in  his  face  as  sharp  as  winter  sleet ; 
It   made   a   noise   of  trampling   like   a   hundred 

thousand  feet.  .  .  . 
"Has  every  shipman  bowed  his  head?     Is  every 

god  implored?" 
"Nay,  yet   there  bides  that  bearded  man  that 

came  in  haste  aboard." 
"Oh,  stranger,   rise   and    lift   your   eyes,  and    if 

you  have  a  god, 
Cry  out  to  him  to  smite  the  waves  down  level 

with  his  rod; 
We've  even  had  the  Nigger's  Stick  to  listen  to 

our  prayer!"  .  .  . 
Then   Jonah    lifted    up   his   eyes   and   saw   that 

God  was  there  — 
Then  Jonah  rose  and  answered  back,  "I  brought 

no  god  with  me, 
For  who  can  wrap  in  cloth  the  One  who  made 

the  sky  and  sea: 
I  could  not  tuck  Him  in  my  sleeve  whose  mighty 

Hand  has  made 
The  sun  that  is  a  shining  thing  and  gives  each 

tree  its  shade,  — 

C86] 


Whose  thumb  and  finger,  reaching  out,  hide  all 

the  stars  in  day.  .  .  . 
And   yet,   when   He  commanded   me,   I   thought 

to  run  away." 
Then,  in  the  darkness  of  the  storm  that  made 

the  mid-day  dim, 
The  men   cast   lots,   one   after  one,   until  it  fell 

on  him: 
And  Jonah  rose  and  spoke  to  them  to  cast  him 

overboard 
Unto  the   easing  of  the   storm,    the   proving  of 

the  Lord  - 
And   when   they'd   cast   him   overboard    a   great 

voice  whispered  "Cease!" 
And,    league   on   league,    the   mighty   waves   fell 

flat  in  shining  peace.  .  .  . 
The   negro,    he   was   first    to    rise    and    take   his 

polished  wood 

And  send  it  flying  overboard  to  float  along  the  flood, 
A  sea-gull  perching  on  it  ...  then  the  men  of 

Tarshish  Trade 

Took  all  their  little  images  of  ivory  and  jade, 
Took    all    their    helpless    little   gods   of  jacinth, 

bronze,  and  bone,  — 
Took    quaint-legged,    ugly,    squatting    things    of 

wood  and  polished  stone, 
And    flung    them,    scorning,    in    the   sea,  —  and, 

as  they  bubbled  down, 
One  cried,  "come  back,  if  ye  be  gods,  —  and,  if 

ye  be  not,  drown!"  .  .  . 

C873 


The  Mate  flung  forth  his  silver  god  his  fathers 

loved  of  old, 
And  from  their  Captain's  fist  there  sped  a  flying 

thing  of  gold,  - 
And,  men  from  all  the  coigns  of  earth,  they  bent 

the  knee  aboard 
To  the  Mercy  and  the  Majesty,  the  Glory  of  the 

Lord! 


H883 


HESPERIDES 


B 


>EYOND  the  blue  rim  of  the  world, 
Washed  round  with  languid-lapsing  seas, 
Where  the  Wind's  wings  were  ever  furled 
The  Ancients  dreamed  Hesperides. 

Ship  after  ship  each  age  sent  forth 
To  find  the  Islands  Of  the  Blest; 

The  loosed  winds  drove  them  south  and  north, 
But  west  they  weathered,  ever  west. 

Sky  after  sky  they  dropped  behind, 
Those  mighty-handed,  bearded  men, 

Till,  seeking  what  they  could  not  find, 
They  rounded  upward,  home  again. 

A  desultory  waif  of  time 

Flying  adventure  from  my  mast, 
Twas  thus  I  voyaged  every  clime 

To  come  back  to  myself  at  last! 


RECOLLECTION 

A  BALLADE  OF  FORMER  TRAMP-DAYS 

A  HE  cars  lay  on  a  siding  through  the  night; 
The  scattered  yard  lamps  winked  in  green   and 

red; 

I  slept  upon  bare  boards  with  small  delight,  - 
My  pillow,  my  two  shoes  beneath  my  head; 
As  hard  as  my  own  conscience  was  my  bed; 
I  lay  and  listened  to  my  own  blood  flow; 
Outside,  I  heard  the  thunder  come  and  go 
And    glimpsed    the    golden    squares    of    passing 

trains, 
Or    felt    the    cumbrous    freight    train    rumbling 

slow; 
And  yet  that  life  was  sweet  for  all  its  pains. 

Against  the  tramp  the  laws  are  always  right, 

So  often  in  a  cell  I  broke  my  bread 

Where  bar  on  bar  went  black  across  my  sight; 

On  county  road  or  rockpile  ill  I  sped 

Leg  chained  to  leg  like  man  to  woman  wed, 

My  wage  for  daily  toil  an  oath,  a  blow; 

I  cursed  my  days  that  they  were  ordered  so; 

I  damned  my  vagrant  heart  and  dreaming  brains 

That    thrust    me    down    among    the    Mean    and 

Low  — 
And  yet  that  life  was  sweet  for  all  its  pains. 


I    crept   with    lice   that    stayed    and    stayed    for 

spite; 

I  froze  in  "jungles"  more  than  can  be  said; 
Dogs  tore  my  clothes,  and  in  a  woeful  plight 
At  many  a  back  door  for  my  food  I  pled 
Until  I  wished  to  God  that  I  was  dead.  .  .  . 
My   shoes   broke   through    and   showed    an   out 
burst  toe; 

On  every  side  the  world  was  all  my  foe, 
Threatening  me  with  jibe  and  jeer  and  chains, 
Hard  benches,  cells,  and  woe  on  endless  woe  - 
And  yet  that  life  was  sweet  for  all  its  pains. 

Brighter,  in  fine,  than  anything  I  know 

Like  sunset  on  a  distant  sea  a-glow 

My  curious  memory  alone  maintains 

The  richer  worth  beneath  the  wretched  show 

Of  vagrant  life  still  sweet  for  all  its  pains. 


I'VE   DECKED  THE  TOPS 


i 


'VE  decked  the  tops  of  flying  cars 
That  leaped  across  the  night; 
The  long  and  level  coaches  skimmed 
Low,  like  a  swallow's  flight. 

Close  to  the  sleet-bit  blinds  I've  clung 

Rocking  on  and  on; 
All  night  I've  crouched  in  empty  cars 

That  rode  into  the  dawn, 

Seeing  the  ravelled  edge  of  life 

In  jails,  on  rolling  freights 
And  learning  rough  and  ready  ways 

From  rough  and  ready  mates. 


IN 


JAIL,  A  TRAMP   RHYTHM 


the  chill,  grey  drip  of  a  winter  morn 
They  dragged  us  oft  to  jail. 
The  young  moon  tipped  her  ghostly  horn 
Where  a  patch  of  mist  grew  pale.  .  .  . 

Closer  our  ragged  coats  we  drew, 

Though  it  was  in  the  South.  .  .  . 
The  Sheriff  had  one  eye  'stead  of  two 

And  a  cruel  twist  to  his  mouth.  .  .  . 

The  Yard  was  full  of  shadowy  cars.  ... 

A  distant  whistle  screamed.  .  .  . 
Switch-lights  glimmered  like  scattered  stars.  .  .  . 

An  engine  clanked   and  steamed.  .  .  . 

Dusk  cars,  dim-bodied,  looming  shapes, 
Stood  ranged  in  a  huddled  line.  .  .  . 

In  soft  release  the  air  escapes; 
A  lantern  lifts,  a-shine.  .  .  . 

It  lifts  and  falls  .  .  .  the  cinders  crunch.  .  .  . 

A  brakeman  passes  near  .  .  . 
Then  the  cars  jerk   and  roar  and  plunge 

Like  herds  that  move  with  fear.  .  .  . 

And  so  they  led  us  off  to  jail 

Upon  that  winter  morn 
When  the  young  moon  made  the  dusk  grow  pale 

With  the  fire  of  its  fading  horn. 

C933 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


MY 


father  was  a  dark-complected  man 
Who  in  a  moment's  joy  my  life  began: 
Before  him  my  old  and  erect  grandsire 
Burned  through,  like  him,  with  madness    and    a 

fire, 
And  I  am  surely  kinsman  to  their  clan. 

I  always  loathed  the  four  walls  of  a  room, 
And  the  glad  summer  varying  sun  and  gloom 
I  revelled  in,  —  I  loved  to  sprawl  in  grass 
And  watch  the  footless  wind-gusts  dip  and  pass 
In  fields  of  wheat,  on  uplands  bright  with  bloom; 

And  where  the  twinkling  waters  of  the  sea 
Washed  outward  into  blue  immensity 
And     then    came    thundering    shoreward     sky- 
outpoured 

As  if  they  fled  in  terror  from  the  Lord, 
I  raced  the  sands  in  naked  ecstasy. 


C94:] 


BALLADE  OF  COMPLAINT  AGAINST 
THE  VAGRANT  LIFE 


i 


SICKEN  of  the  campfire's  glow 
Which  turns  a  ghost  before  the  day; 
The  leaf  that  dawdles  to  and  fro 
Soon  changes  green  for  graveyard  grey 
Though  for  a  while  it  lift  and  play 
Clothed  like  a  king  in  gold  and  red.  .  .  . 
Cast  into  jails,  unhoused,  half-fed, 
How  can  I  climb  (though  I  be  fain 
Of  stars  that  beckon  overhead), 
To  heights  the  master  minds  attain? 

The  moving  seas  where  great  winds  blow 

I  love  indeed  —  yet  I  gainsay 

Those  slant-stacked  ships  that  smoking  go 

And  leave  behind  a  foamy  way 

A  bull-necked  captain  to  obey 

Or  mate  who  leaves  no  curse  unsaid  — 

Such  is  the  life  by  seamen  led 

Despite  the  dreams  romancers  feign; 

And  who  can  climb,  with  heart  of  dread, 

To  heights  the  master  minds  attain? 

The  burnt-out  lamp  that  gutters  low 
Casts  on  a  songless  page  its  ray, 
Nor  can  the  poet,  drawn  with  woe, 
To  penury  and  want  a  prey, 
In  his  cold  attic  build  that  lay 


That  lives  when  he  who  sang  is  dead; 
A  thousand  worries  throng,  instead, 
The  gloomy  twilight  of  his  brain.  .   .  . 
How  can  one  rise,  sore-pinched  for  bread, 
To  heights  the  master  minds  attain? 

Thus  I,  to  mighty  visions  wed, 
Drop  twenty  shafts  before  they're  sped, 
Shoot  twenty  more  that  fly  in  vain.  .  .  , 
Nor  may  I  climb,  though  greatly  led, 
To  heights  the  master  minds  attain. 


C96] 


POOR 


THE  SCARECROW  WOMAN 

SOUTHAMPTON   JAIL,    ENGLAND 


Scarecrow  Woman,  worn  and  marred, 
Unhymned  as  yet  by  any  bard  - 
No  limb  but  what  is  hung  askew, 
No  joint   but  what   the  bone  shines   through; 

Broken  by  need  and  greed  and  lust; 
With  shambling  foot  and  flattened  bust, 
Removed  from  beauty  or  the  saints,  - 
You  are  the  thing  no  artist  paints! 

What  brought  you  down  so  low  as  this 
From  all  that  men  feign  woman  is, 
What  hidden  shame  or  dreadful  chance 
From  all  that  poets  deem  romance? 

Yet,  whether  born,  or  brought  to  be 
This  crawling  thing  of  misery, 
You  shall  not  go  unsung  to  death 
With  rheumy  eyes  and  wheezy  breath  - 
I'll  force  my  loathing  Muse  to  sing 
Your  fame,  at  last,  poor  scarecrow  thing! 


C973 


THE  CALL 


o 


H,    Duty   is   bare   and  the   sark  of  Care   is 

ragged  and  thin  and  old; 
I  will  cast  her  aside  and  take  for  my  bride  a 

Muse  in  a  cloth  of  gold. 
I  have  heard  the  call  of  the  wind-swept  pine  and 

there  bides  no  rest  for  me; 
My   soul   is   drenched   with   clear  starshine   and 

drunk  with  the  wine  of  the  sea. 

What  care  I  now  for  the  broken  vow  and  the 

word  by  the  deed  gainsaid? 
Ere  the  night  was  torn  with  the  sun,  new-born, 

my  life  to  my  fate  was  wed. 
I    am    going    South    to    a    bayou-mouth    where 

quiet  forever  reigns, 
Where  the  migrant  flight  of  the  geese  by  night 

and  the  sober-stalking  cranes 

And  the  stars  that  creep  o'er  the  Crystal  Deep 

in  the  course  of  the  Southern  night 
Not  yet  complain  of  the  lesser  Cain  who  comes 

with  his  gun  to  smite. 
There  the  long  low  moan  of  the  ocean's  tone  as 

it  rides  on  the  wind  from  far 
Doth    make   one   think   that    he   stands   on    the 

brink  of  a  sea  on  another  star, 


Not    here    where    men,    again    and    again,    in    a 

treadmill,  day  by  day, 
Go  'round    and  'round  in    a  narrow   bound    and 

labour  their  joy  away. 
Ere  my  heart  grow  sad   and  the  joy  I've  had 

fade  out  and  die  like  a  dream, 
And  my  soul  peak  thin  mid  the  hurry  and  din 

and  the  noise  of  hammers  and  steam, 

(For  the   Bought   and   the  Sold   be  the  getting 

of  gold),  I  will  leave  the  City  behind, 
And   my  soul  shall    be  as  wide    and    free  as  a 

heaven-searching  wind. 
Persuade  me  not  for  a  passion  hot  and  a  wild, 

wind-drifted  cry 
Sweeps  over  me   like  the  tides  of  the  sea  —  I 

must  go  or  my  soul  will  die. 

I   have   heard   the  call  of  the  wind-swept   pine 

and  there  bides  no  rest  for  me. 
My    soul    is    drunk    with    clear    starshine    and 

drenched  with  the  wine  of  the  sea, 
And  Duty  is  bare  and  the  sark  of  Care  is  ragged 

and  thin  and  old  — 
I  will  cast  her  aside  and  take  for  a  bride  a  Muse 

in  a  cloth  of  gold. 


C993 


RIDING  BY  NIGHT 


T, 


HE  great-wheeled,  twi-domed  engine  waits 
Expectant,  for  the  signal  to  depart; 
The  fireman  opens  wide  the  furnace  door 
And  bares  the  fire's  red  heart; 

Then  the  conductor's  lantern  lifts  and  falls, 
And,  down  the  car-thronged  yards  the  coaches 
glide, 

And,  leaping  like  a  runner  to  the  race, 
We  gain  the  countryside. 

Out  at  the  window  into  night  I  peer 

While  the  bright  coaches  hurtle  through  the 
gloom 

Like  some  swift  meteor  with  a  shining  tail 
Which  rushes  to  its  doom. 

A    thousand    darkling    fields    and    woods    sweep 
past; 

Infrequent  blurs  of  light  go  trailing  by, 
And  here  and  there  a  single  farmhouse  shows 

A  pale  and  single  eye. 


Cioo] 


THE   RETURN 

JL    HID   behind    a   side-tracked   car   until    there 

echoed  clear 
As  a  signal  of  the  starting,  two  sharp  whistles 

on  my  ear, 
Then,  with   a  long,   laborious  groan  the  freight 

got  under  way 

And   ponderous  cars  went   hulking   by   like  ele 
phants  at  play. 
I  gripped  an  iron  rung  and  swung  aboard  with 

flapping  coat. 
The  engine  sent   a  wailing  dirge  from  its  deep 

iron  throat 
And  vanished  in   a  Cut  which  gaped,   a  brown 

gash,  new  and  raw; 
One  either  side  the  jagged  rocks,  like  the  broken 

teeth  of  a  saw 
Leaped    up    and    down    with    naked    poles    and 

racing  strands  of  wire.  .  .  . 
Then,   flash!  the  engine   reached  the  plain   as  a 

cannon  belches  fire, 
Wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  rolling  smoke.     As  on  and 

on  we  flew 

The  panoramaof  the  fields  went  shifting  out  of  view. 
A  scared  thrush  shot  up  from  a  bush  and  sought 

the  open  sky; 
A  herd  of  cattle  raised  their  heads   and   stared 

rebukingly; 

CM*  3 


•Abdve  :a  matching   clump  of  trees   a  wind-mill 

spun  its  wheel, 
And  from  a  bank  of  toppling  cloud  there  crashed 

a  thunder-peal. 

The    sun    went    down,    the    stars    came    out,    I 

crouched  upon  the  coal 
Feeling  as  if  I  had  been  made  a  lone,  unbodied 

soul: 
Chance  with  great  hands  might  crumple  me  like 

any  gossamer  thing, 
Might  o'er  the  ramparts  of  the  Flesh  my  startled 

spirit  fling 
Where  a  scattered  silver  dust  of  worlds  stream 

down  through  endless  night 
As  sun-motes  in  a  darkened  room  dance  down 

a  shaft  of  light.  .  .  . 

Now,  like  gigantic  fireflies  clustered  on  a  Malay 

tree, 
The  lamps  of  the  division-end   across  the  dark 

I  see.  .  .  . 
Dim  boxcars  huddle  everywhere  ...  I  laugh  as 

I  alight, 
For,  safe  and  sound  in  life  and  limb,  I'm  home 

again  tonight! 


EXPERIENCE 


i 


N  the  north  where  leagues  of  forest   sag  be 
neath  the  plumey  snow, 

I've  worked  with  lurching-shouldered    lumber 
men; 
I've  seen  the  small,  grey  fishing  fleets  beat  out 

with  lifting  bow 
Toward     the     stormy     coasts     of     Labrador 

again; 
I've  plucked  the  purple-swollen  grape  beside  the 

Great  Blue  Lake, 
And    gathered    pungent    hops     from    off    the 

vine; 
I  have  watched  the  water  swirling  in  the  clumsy 

ore-boat's  wake, 

Laden  down  with  dusty  riches  from  the  mine; 
I've  seen  the  mad  steer  plunge  and  fall  beneath 

the  sledge's  stroke 

In  packing  houses  by  the  turbid  Kaw; 
I  have  rotted  three    long    months    in     a    steel- 
barred  southern  jail 
And  known  the  bitter  irony  of  Law; 
I    have   fed   the    myriad-headed    grain    into    the 

toothed  machine 

Which  tramples  loud  with  wild,  interior  feet; 
I  have    seen    the    Kansas    plains    carpeted   with 

soft  young  corn 
And  garmented  with  glory  of  the  wheat; 


I  have  camped  in  California  by  the  shoreward- 
heaving  sea, 
And  I've  walked   Manhattan's  pavements  all 

night  long- 
But  the  lives  I've  lived   and  suffered  paid  me 

more  than  poverty: 

They  paid  me  in  the  golden  coin  of  song; 
They  paid  me  in  Song's  golden     coin  .  .  .  those 

days  were  never  lost. 
If  I   had   died    a   hundred   deaths   it   well  were 

worth  the  cost; 
For  I  beheld  America  —  Her  sunrise  kissed  my 

brow,  - 
I  learned  to  sing  the  miracle  of  living  here  and 

now! 


A  TRAMP'S   PRAYER 

VjREAT  Spirit,  when  I  soar  away 
Beyond  the  confines  of  this  Day, 
And  sing  because  my  earth-life's  done, 
And  gaze  back  at  the  lessening  sun; 
I  pray  that  thou  wilt  make  me  free 
To  roam  through  all  infinity 
Where  comets  roar  with  maddened  hair 
While  the  stars  turn  pale  and  stare 
Like  huddled  herds  of  frightened  sheep  - 
Else,  give  me,  Lord,  eternal  sleep: 
I  do  not  care  in  heaven  to  bide 
Forever  by  The  Bridegroom's  side. 


.     THE  WILD   BIRD 

AT'S  good  to  be  the  wild  bird 

To  pierce  horizons  a-far, 
To  hurl  through  night  and  sunlight 

As  sure  as  the  flight  of  a  star, 
To  pour  down  out  of  heaven 

As  sheep  pour  out  of  a  fold 
Where  lone  lakes  lie  in  the  sunset 

A-ripple  with  fluctuant  gold,  — 
To  dive  and  cry  and  scurry 

And  shift  in  a  joyous  fleet 
Where  the  sudden-pattering  rainstorm 

Roars  by  on  a  million  feet! 


MARCH  NIGHT 

JL  HE  vistaed  concaves  of  infinity 
Star-vast,  and  archipelagoed  with  suns, 
And    gulfed    with    stellar   space  —  the    luminous 

banks 

Of  the  gigantic,  straggling  Milky  Way, 
The   moon    that   takes   the   huge   world    at   one 

glance, 

Give  me  a  winging  sense  of  stars  and  space,  — 
Dim-bodied  shapes  of  unimagined  Dream 
Beat  round  me  with  a  multitude  of  wings; 
Eternity's  presence  overshadows  me, 
And  I  reach  out  toward  everlastingness.  .  .  . 

But  now  the  moon's  a  ghost  in  silver  mail, 
As,  blowing  through  a  storm  of  stars,  the  earth 
Dips  downward  into  dawn,  deluged  with  light  — 
Sunlight  which  is  the  golden  laugh  of  God! 

The  naked  trees,  —  gaunt,  sullen  limbs  a-creak  — 
That  shivered  half  alive  in  the  rushing  air 
Of  Winter,  dream  of  greenness  and  are  glad; 
The  marching  armies  of  the  snow  have  gone: 
White  blossoms  soon  will  rain  from  windy  boughs; 
All  Nature's  little  gentle  things  will  wake, 
And  earth  will  grow  a  Wonder  to  the  sky! 


LET  ME   BE  STILL  LIFE'S   FOOL 


HATE  the  wisdom  of  the  Wise 
That  think  first  of  the  rule 
Before  they  plunge  into  the  deed  — 
Let  me  be  still  life's  fool.  .  .  . 

For  every  glow  the  soul  attains 
Is  worth  the  exacted  price, 

And  from  the  buds  of  impulse  spring 
The  fruits  of  paradise! 


GO  TELL  THE  LYING  WORLD 

\jO  tell  the  lying  world  that  Indolence 

Is  not  a  siren  sitting  on  white  bones, 

But  the  sweet  nurse  of  fancy  and  romance, 

Mother  of  song  and  every  starry  art,  — 

Go  tell  the  world  that  we  have  found  her  so  — 

We,  who  weave  wonder  for  the  ears  of  men, 

And,  through  all  ages,  beauty  for  men's  eyes. 


CI093 


GOD'S   BACCHANTE 


.  HE 


rain  rushed,  grey  and  solid, 
At  window,  wall,  and  door,  - 
It  crashed  across  the  housetops 
Like  waves  that  lift  and  roar. 

It  danced  to  drums  of  thunder, 
It  leaped  along  the  plain, 

It  raced  upon  the  hilltops  - 
God's  Great  Bacchante,  Rain! 


STAR-FACTS 

A  O  think  that  we  dwell  on  a  star 
And  poise  in  the  infinite  sky 
While  all  about  us,  a-far, 
Systems  and  sun-drifts  ply! 

To  think  that  we  balance  in  space 
Like  an  irised  bubble  in  air 

Where  comets  flash  and  race 
With  thunder  in  their  hair! 


MIDNIGHT 

VJfREAT  and  vast  as  is  the  sea, 
Its  bounds  are  pettiness  to  me 
Compared  with  this  infinity 
Which  fetches  compasses  unknown 
Where  unnumbered  worlds  are  strown 
Through  awful  vastitudes  star-sown. 
Hence  gain  I  that  which  makes  me  strong, 
Hence  draw  my  starry  urns  of  song, 
Hence  get,  half-felt,  half-seen,  half-heard, 
The  spirit  that  exalts  the  word. 


TRANSMUTATION 

OINCE  bit  by  bit  I've  died  so  long, 

I  think  I  shall  not  mind 
When  picks  and  spades  have  delved  for  me 

A  hole  that's  close  and  blind. 

I  died  a  little  when  a  friend 

Unheeding,  passed  me  by, 
And  when  a  woman  that  I  loved 

Revealed  her  love  a  lie; 

I  died  a  little  when  I  stooped 

To  a  revengeful  score  — 
Yet,  as  I've  died,  so  I've  been  born 

Each  day  a  little  more.  .  .  . 

With  every  glimpse  of  loveliness 

I  am  the  more  re-born, 
With  every  laugh,  with  every  kiss, 

With  every  shining  morn!  .  .  . 

So,  one  day,  when  they  think  me  dead, 

The  truth  of  truths  will  be 
That  I've  just  walked  out  through  a  door 

To  immortality! 


RAIN-SADNESS 


Ti 


HE  fowls  seek  shelter,  and  the  eaves 
Drip-drip  with  melancholy  rain  — 
I  wonder  why  it  makes  me  think 
Of  times  which  will  not  come  again 
And  of  great  men  who  lived  in  vain  ? 


MOON-DAWN 

TO    R.    W. 


T, 


HERE  are  more  dawns  than  the  one 
Uprising  of  the  sun. 

There  is  a  moon-dawn  whose  soft-flooding  light 
Makes  a  nocturnal  day  of  night. 
The    whippoorwiirs    the    moon-dawn's    lark,     he 

sings, 

The  immitigable  passion  of  dumb  things: 
In  shadowy  woods  a  thousand  night-things  cry, 
Unnumbered  meadows  lute  in  large  reply. 


THE  CRY  OF  MAN 

JL  HERE  is  a  crying  in  my  heart 
That  never  will  be  still, 
Like  the  voice  of  a  lonely  bird 
Behind  a  starry  hill; 

There  is  a  crying  in  my  heart 
For  what  I  may  not  know  — 

An  infinite  crying  of  desire 

Because  my  feet  are  slow.  .  .  . 

My  feet  are  slow,  my  eyes  are  blind, 
My  hands  are  weak  to  hold: 

It  is  the  universe  I  seek, 
All  life  I  would  enfold! 


TOWARDS   DAWN 


T 


HE  night  verged  slowly  into  dawn: 

I  waked  while  others  slept, 
Till  through  the  shutters  closely  drawn 

The  infinite  daylight  crept; 
I  could  not  keep  the  morning  out,  - 

Through  every  chink  it  came; 
It  poured  its  growing  beams  about 

My  lamp's  decaying  flame; 
And  when  I  left  my  written  words 

The  sun  was  at  my  door: 
I  never  knew  so  many  birds 

Lived  in  the  trees  before. 


WHY? 

VV  HY,  when  I  pass  through  moving  faces 

Comes  to  me 

Visions  of  beauty  no  man  knows  of, 
None  can  see? 

And,  in  the  midst  of  the  long  day's  traffic, 

O'er  and  o'er 
Why  must  I  dream  of  a  surf  a-thunder 

On  an  alien  shore? 


BLIND 

CUMBERLAND   MARKET,   LONDON 


1HE 


Spring  blew  trumpets  of  color; 
Her  green  sang  in  my  brain.  .  .  . 
I  heard  a  blind  man  groping 
"Tap-tap"  with  his  cane; 

I  pitied  him  his  blindness; 

But  can  I  boast,  "I  see?" 
Perhaps  there  walks  a  spirit 

Close  by,  who  pities  me,  — 

A  spirit  who  hears  me  tapping 
The  five-sensed  cane  of  mind 

Amid  such  unguessed  glories 
That  I  am  worse  than  blind! 


R, 


AUTUMN  TWILIGHT 

TO   C.    B. 

Cornwall  Bridge,  Connecticut 


JCH  afterglows  of  Autumn 
Fill  all  the  world  with  light 
And  elm  and  oak  and  maple 
Loom  up  like  fire  in  flight, 

And  golden  is  the  valley, 
And  golden  is  the  hill, 

And  golden  is  the  first  star 
At  twilight's  window-sill. 


C  120:1 


THE  WIND'S  LIFE 


I 


LOVE  the  silver-shaken, 
The  windy  tops  of  trees 
That  heave  and  lift  in  sequence, 
Like  running  surf  of  seas, 

With  swathes  of  changing  purples 

And  vistas  golden-deep 
Where,  for  an  unstirred  moment, 

The  sunlight  lies  asleep. 


LIGHTNING 


A 


RUSH  of  lightning  reddened 
The  dense,  black,  roaring  rain; 
The  night  leaped  into  daylight 
Then  back  to  night  again. 

And  like  one  hurt  in  battle 

When  blows  fall  hot  and  blind, 

The  great  oak  trembled,  tottered, 
And  leaned  against  the  wind. 

Then,  with  a  sudden  thunder, 
Its  cloudy  head  lay  low  — 

Its  thousand  years  were  scattered 
To  nothing,  at  one  blow. 


£122:1 


THE  DAWN 

HERE  is  a  pool  for  every  star 
To  shine  upon. 

But  all  the  waters  of  the  world 
Await  the  dawn. 


£123:1 


WONDER 

SEA  that  foams  against  untrodden  sands; 
A  voyaged  ship  with  high,  sky-moving  spars; 
A  casement  opened  by  pale  hidden  hands; 
A  hill  lost  in  a  multitude  of  stars. 


CI243 


TRANSIT  GLORIA 


T, 


OWARD  yon  star-cluster  in  vast  Hercules 
Our  sun  with  all  its  worlds  drops  down  the  sky, 
For,  banked  in  shining  heaps,  the  great  suns  fly 
Onward  in  fiery  swarms  like  golden  bees, 
While  from  all  sides  the  everlasting  seas 
Of  night  break  on  them  as  they  thunder  by.  .  .  . 

And  ignorant  generations  live  and  die 
Amid  this  storm  of  stars,  and  feel  at  ease. 


TO  ONE  WHO  SAID  HE  WAS 
BORED  WITH  LIFE 

T  bores  you,  then,  to  live  and  die 
Upon  this  cloud-scarfed  ball 
That  drops  from  space  to  space  of  sky 
In  one  eternal  fall? 

With  the  great  heavens  drawn  above, 
Beneath,  the  wondrous  earth, 

How  strange  is  life,  how  strange  is  love, 
And  death,  that  walks  with  birth.  .  . 

O,  when  I  die,  say  I  lived  ill, 
Say  that  my  days  were  poured 

Like  wasted  wine,  say  all  you  will, 
But  never,  "Kemp  was  bored." 


CI263 


EXUBERANCE 

'IVE  me  those  people  who  will  shout, 
Sometimes,  and  wave  their  arms  about; 
Folk  who  will  swear,  and  laugh,  and  cry, 
Nor  shape  their  conduct  to  another's  eye: 
How  I've  grown  sick  of  the  Polite 
Whose  only  care  is  how  to  do  things  right! 


THE  HUMMING  BIRD 

HE  sunlight  speaks  and  its  voice  is  a  bird 
It  glimmers  half-guessed,  half-seen,  half-heard, 
Above  the  flowerbed,  over  the  lawn  .  .  . 
A  flashing  dip,  and  it  is  gone, 
And  all  it  lends  to  the  eye  is  this  - 
A  sunbeam  giving  the  air  a  kiss. 


CI28] 


TELL  ALL  THE  WORLD 


T 


ELL  all  the  world  that  summer's  here  again 
With  song  and  joy;    tell  them,  that  they  may 

know 

How,  on  the  hillside,  in  the  shining  fields 
New  clumps  of  violets  and  daisies  grow. 

Tell  all  the  world  that  summer's  here  again, 
That  white  clouds   voyage  through   a  sky  so 
still 

With  blue  tranquillity,   it  seems  to  hang 
One  windless  tapestry,  from  hill  to  hill. 

Tell  all  the  world  that  summer's  here  again: 
Folk  go  about  so  solemnly  and  slow, 

Walking  each  one  his  grooved  and  ordered  way  — 
I  fear  that,  otherwise    thev  will  not  know! 


WIND-MAGIC 


I  HE 


wind  sweeps  over  the  corn, 
The  wind  sweeps  over  my  heart, 
It  lifts  me  up  and  it  blows 
My  soul  and  body  apart; 

And  I  run,  I  run  by  its  side 

In  bodiless  liberty  — 
I  touch  the  tops  of  the  trees, 

And  dapple  and  darken  the  sea; 

I  rush  through  populous  streets, 
I  eddy  through  glade  and  glen  — 

And  now  the  wind  dies  down, 
And  I  am  my  body  again. 


THE  CHANTEY  OF  THE  GALILEAN 
FISHERMEN 

W  HILE  the  hills  of  Galilee  hung  as  in  a  sea 

of  glass, 
Peter,    Andrew,    James,    and    John,    when    they 

saw  the  Dreamer  pass, 
With    the   clouts    that    they    had    on,    left   their 

nets'  live,  tangled  mass  — 

Left  the  fishes  where  they  lay,  seething  silver, 

on  the  sand. 
Zebedee   in    vain,    in    vain    raised    his   clenched, 

protesting  hand, 
Captain   of  the   fisher-fleet,    twelve   brown   sails 

at  his  command. 

Thrice  the  Man  had   talked  with  them   at  the 

quiet  edge  of  day, 
Where    his    dozen,    sail-stripped    masts,    rocking 

slow,  at  anchor  lay, 
But  he'd  never  even  dreamed  He  would  lure  his 

sons  away! 

John  was  he  who  sang  so  well  when  the  battling 

nets  they  drew; 
Peter'd    hook   leviathan  just   to   fetch    a   nearer 

view; 
James  could  row,  and  Andrew  mend  —  four,  the 

best  men  of  his  crew! 


"O,  my  sons,  what  fools  you   are/'  cried  their 

father  Zebedee, 
"To  go  running  off  like  this  —  when  you're  sure 

of  work  with  me  - 
With   a  Man  who  boasts  a  ship  on   a  far,   un- 

travelled  sea!" 

"Yes,   you're   fools,"    a    gossip    said,    "fools    to 

leave  your  father  so  - 
Leave    the    ships  you've  learned  to  sail  and  the 

nets  you've  learned  to  throw, 
On  the  word  a  Stranger  gives  of  a  Way  you  do 

not  know." 

"Oh,"  said  Peter,  "we  don't  care  to  what  un 
known  port  we  sail. 

When  all  other  craft  lie  deep,  whelmed  in  foam 
from  rail  to  rail, 

Captain  swears  no  better  ship  ever  keeled  along 
the  gale." 

"Oh,  the  ship  that  waits  for  us,"  it  was  gentle 

Andrew  said, 
"It  will  weather  any  storm,  Captain  says,  that 

ship  bestead, 
Though  the  stars  stoop  down  and  whirl  by  the 

lifted  mainmast  head." 


"Oh,  we've  signed  on,  father  dear,  with  a  greater 

Shipman  now, 
For   to   cast    a    world-wide    net    from    a     starry 

vessel's  prow," 
Spoke  up  John,  while  sunset  lay  like  a  halo  on 

his  brow. 

James  said  nothing,  only  laughed,  the  Adventure 

in  his  face. 

They  departed  as  the  stars  lit  illimitable  space. 
All  the  neighbours  said  such  sons  were  a  scandal 

and  disgrace. 


CI333 


CHANT  OF  THE  WIDOW'S  MITE 

JLjSTEN  to  the  trumpets  blowing  before 
The  pharisee  deep  in  the  Talmud's  lore 
Proclaiming  his  generous  gifts  to  the  Lord 
With  the  sky  itself  as  his  sounding  board. 

Behold  the  scribe  with  his  pompous  face 
Saluting  his  friends  in  the  market  place. 

See  how  the  strutting  rich  man  comes 
The  lord  of  vineyards  and  silks  and  sums. 

Behold  the  king  in  his  chariot  ride 
Surrounded  by  spears  on  every  side.  .  .  . 

But  the  widow,  the  widow  comes  last  of  all 
And  she  lets  the  mites  in  the  coin-box  fall 
So  hardly  spared  from  her  little  hoard  — 
Unseen  of  men,  but  seen  of  the  Lord ! 

Who  gives  from  his  utmost  need  shall  gain 
What  the  poor  earth's  measure  cannot  contain.  .  .  . 
The  king  and  all  his  hosts  go  by. 
The  pharisee's  trumpets  hush  their  cry. 

The  scribe  sees  death  as  all  men  must, 

And  the  rich  man's  wealth  grows  less  than  dust: 

But  out  of  the  widow's  humble  deed 

There  grows,  like  the  Scriptural  mustard  seed, 

Mercy  and  pity  and  love's  increase 

To  wax  till  the  world  itself  shall  cease. 

1:1343 


THE  GOING  OF  HIS  FEET 

i~J.IS  feet  went  here  and  there 
About  the  common  earth. 

He  touched  to  grandeur  all 
Men  held  of  little  worth. 

He  loved  the  growing  flowers, 
The  small  bright  singing  birds, 

The  patient  flocks  of  sheep, 
The  many-pastured  herds, 

The  field  of  rippling  corn 
That  shimmered  in  the  sun, 

The  soft  blue  smoke  of  eve 

That  curled  when  day  was  done.  , 


He  did  not  search  a-far 
For  what  He  had  to  say: 

His  mind  reached  forth  and  drew 
Its  strength  from  every  day: 

The  struggling  nets,  alive 

With  fish  drawn  from  the  sea 

Supplied  Him  with  the  apt 
And  chosen  simile. 


He  saw  a  neighbour  build 

A  house  that  did  not  stand  — 

And  men  may  not  forget 
The  House  Upon  The  Sand; 

He  saw  a  widow  drop 

Her  mite  into  the  hoard  - 

And  to  eternity 

That  treasure  is  up-stored; 

He  heard  a  publican 

Who  thought  none  other  there 
The  souls  of  all  mankind 

Are  richer  for  that  prayer.  .  . 

O,  Poet  of  The  World, 
I  pray  Thee,  come  to  me, 

That  my  lame  heart  might  walk, 
That  my  dark  soul  may  see; 

And  teach  me,  too,  to  go 
About  the  ways  of  earth 

And  find  the  Wealth  of  God 
In  things  of  little  worth! 


LAZARUS   SPEAKS 


L 


fAZARUS,  come  forth!"  The  Great  Compeller 

spoke, 
Then,  earthquake-rent,  the  grave-mouth  heaved 

and  broke, 

And  vomited  forth,  and  pushed  out,  as  with  hands, 
A     reeling     thing     wrapped     round     in     rotten 

bands.  .  .  . 

"Why    didst     thou     call     me     forth?'      moaned 
Lazarus, 

"Why  hast   thou   dragged   my   soul   back   earth 
ward,  thus? 

Why  didst  thou  waken  me  from  out  death's  deep 

And  sweet  oblivion,  sweeter  far  than  sleep? 

What  have  I  done  to  merit  this?  .  .  . 

Now  1 

A  second  time  must  die! 

Oh,  Mighty  Lord,  how  can  I  shake  from  me 
Those  once-touched  edges  of  eternity  ?- 
Now,  as  I  walk  the  narrow  village  street, 
Mine  ears  will  hear  all  mouths  repeat, 
'There  goes  the  Twice-born;   him  Jehovah  led 
Twice  into  life  —  behold  The  Living  Dead!' 
How  can  I  cleanse  me  from  the  sepulchre? 
Will  not  about  me  grave-scents  ever  stir? 
Dare  I  sit  down  in  Life's  thronged  banquet-room, 
An  odor  from  the  tomb? 


My  mouth,  too,  thou  hast  sealed  ...     I   may 

not  tell 

The  things  I've  learned  of  Paradise  and  Hell, 
And  unto  me  the  reverend  Wise  will  come 
Across  the  deserts  both  of  sand  and  foam 
To  learn  of  me  what  men  have  ever  sought  — 
And  I  must,  silent,  sit,  and  tell  them  naught. 

The  children  at  the  fountain  will  grow  dumb 

When  they  behold  me  come; 

The  wedding  guests  will  hold  their  laughter  gay 

Till  I  have  slunk  my  way; 

Without  the  door  of  Joy  I'll  have  to  wait 

Like  a  foul  leper  at  the  city  gate; 

The  very  birds  will  cease  till  I  have  passed,  — 

And  I  will  be  to  all  an  icy  blast. 

Each  word  I  say  and  every  thought  I  have 
Will  reek  with  reminiscence  of  the  grave; 
And  I  shall  live,  abhorred,  among  men  — 
Dear  Master,  give  me  back  to  Death  again!" 

Thus   Lazarus   spake,    when,    stunned   with    sun 

and  bloom, 
He  groped  forth,  like  a  blind  man,  from  the  tomb — 

Then  with  that  love  which  storms  beyond  all  speech 
And  floods  the  soul  through  every  cove  and  reach, 
Christ  took  one  groping  hand  ...  he  answered 

naught.  .  .  . 
But  down  his  cheeks  the  human  tears  rained  hot. 


THE  ANGEIAS  ANTHEM 

A    CHRISTMAS    CAROL 

L  HERE  was  music  on  the  hillside  and  singing 

in  the  glen, 

And    anthems   heard   in    meadows   when    Christ 
was  born  to  men: 

The  king  slept  on  in  blindness,  though  troubled 

in  his  sleep; 
The  high  priest's  ancient  wisdom  held  no  such 

lore  in  keep; 

The  trader  and  the  merchant  so  bound  by  gain 

and  rule, 
And  all  the  learned  scholars  who  founded  school 

on  school, 

The    consul    and    the    soldiers,    their    ears    were 

stopped  that  night, 
And  only  to  the  shepherds  the  angels  brought 

delight.  .  .  . 

The  shepherds  heard   the  singing  that  charmed 

the  listening  air; 
The    shepherds    saw    the    glory;     the    shepherds 

were  aware: 

There  was  music  on  the  hillside  and  singing  in 

the  glen, 
And    anthems   heard    in    meadows   when    Christ 

was  born  to  men! 

CI393 


THE  UNREPENTANT  THIEF 

A  HE  Unrepentant  Thief  clung  to  the  Cross, 
Batlike  —  he  held  Christ's  Paradise  no  loss: 

Point  him  as  chief  example,  if  you  will, 
Of  darkened  souls  that  perish  loving  ill,  — 

At  least,  —  struck  blind  with  fear,    he    did    not 

cower 
And  supplicate  for  heaven  that  last  hour. 


£14°  3 


A   RHYME  OF  TWO  WAYFARERS 

A  WO  travellers  met  in  passing,  and  one  was 
lost  in  the  murk: 

"Tell  me  (I  come  from  Nazareth  seeking  car 
penter  work) 

Is  this  the  road  to  Jerusalem?" 

"You're  somewhat  out  of  the  way. 

A  furlong  to  the  left,  sire,  brings  you  to  Gol 
gotha, 

Then  turn  along  the  hillside  —  a  path  leads  to 
the  street 

Where  three  men  loom  on  crosses  with  nails 
clenched  through  the  feet." 


THE  PLAYMATE 
CHILDREN 

Where  has  he  gone,  our  playmate? 

We've  sought  him  high  and  low 
Where  grey-green  olives  ripen, 

Where  haycocks  stand  a-row.  .  .  . 

ELDERS 

We  saw  him  passing  down  the  street 
An  hour  or  so  ago! 

CHILDREN 

Where  has  he  gone,  our  comrade 
Who  took  us  by  the  hand 

And  taught  us  to  build  houses 
With  little  heaps  of  sand  ? 

ELDERS 

He  has  gone  forth  to  sojourn 
In  a  far,  foreign  land! 

CHILDREN 

Nay,  but  he  would  not  leave  us 

Who  took  us  on  his  knee, 
And  set  our  fancies  sailing 

Like  ships  upon  the  sea.  .  .  . 

ELDERS 

We  think  that  he  will  never  come 
Again  to  Galilee! 


A  CHANTEY  OF  GROWING  GREEN 
THINGS 

And  it  was  said  unto  them  that  they  should  not 
hurt  the  grass  of  the  earthy  neither  any  green 
thing,  neither  any  tree.  —  REVELATIONS 

The  little  green  leaves  were  kind  to  him.  —  LANIER 


Y 


E  shall  not  hurt  the  grass  of  the  earth 
That  grows  so  gently  on  down  and  hill  — 
When  I  had  nowhere  to  lay  my  head 
The  lush  green  couch  of  it  held  me  still, 

And  I  blessed  the  softness  of  the  grass 

And  the  grateful  shade  of  the  wayside  tree 

On  the  highway  to  Jerusalem 
And  down  the  roads  of  Galilee. 

The  live  oak  shadowed  me  from  the  sun, 
The  sycamore  and  the  lonely  pine 

Tented  me  off  from  the  chill  of  dew 
In  the  long  night  vigils  that  were  mine. 

There  was  never  a  green  thing  did  me  hurt 
Though  I  suffered  much  from  the  ills  of  men, 

So  I  love  the  lily  of  the  vale, 

And  the  little  flowers  of  field  and  fen; 

And  even  that  barren  fig  I  cursed 
I  afterward  bade  it  bloom  again 

CHS  3 


Till  it  bore  like  a  tree  in  paradise.   .  .  . 

Yea,  even  the  thorns  they  pressed  on  me 
Grew  rich  with  roses  budded  thick 

To  make  their  mute  apology, 

And  sent  a  tender  green  about." 
The  angels  bowed  in  a  shining  row, 

And  all  earth's  things  of  growing  green, 
They  heard  the  master  and  they  bent  low: 

And  when  Death  came  to  tether  Life, 
Leading  it  to  its  great,  dark  End, 

The  trees  and  the  flowers  sang  in  the  dawn 
For  the  Lord  of  All,  was  He  not  their  friend  ? 


£144:1 


THE   RHYME  OF  THE  PRODIGAL 

1  OU'VE  youth  and  a  girl  and  plenty  of  gold, 

what  more  can  your  heart  desire?  — 
Did   it  ever  content  the  heart  of  youth  to  sit 

at  home  by  the  fire? 
I  am  leaving  half  my  land  to  you  and  half  of  my 

flocks  and  herds  — 
And    I'd    rather   shepherd    alien   sheep    and   live 

on  whey  and  curds. 
Don't    go,    don't    go,    my    own    little    son,    and 

leave  me  all  alone  — 
Will  you  never  remember  I'm  not  a  child  but  a 

youth  that's  nigh  man-grown? 
Think   of   your   brother,    your   elder   brother,  — 

would  you  leave  him  all  to  bear?  — 
He's    only    a    brother    of    mine    by    birth    who 

seldom  speaks  me  fair, 
And   I've  had   a   dream,   a  wonderful  dream  of 

brothers  that  wait  for  me, 
Men  made  brethren  by  perils  borne  together  on 

land  and  sea. 
Think  of  your  mother,  your  own  dear  mother, 

and  ponder  what  is  best.  — 
Would  you  tie  me  fast  to  an  apron-string  and 

make  me  a  village  jest? 
Your  pallet  is  fine  and  soft  with  wool  and  you 

sleep  in  the  Upper  Room  — 
And   I'd   liefer  be  in  a   fo'c'sle   hold   where  one 

lamp  swings  in  the  gloom, 


In   the   fo'c'sle  hold  of  a  great-sailed  ship  that 

sunders  the  purple  sea. 
My  son,  my  son,   will  you   break   my   heart  to 

have  your  jest  with  me?- 
Father,   I'm  having  no  jest  with  you,  but  I'm 

earnest  to  go  away; 
There's  something  that's  gripping  the  soul  of  me 

that  will  not  bide  delay; 
I  have  dreamed  and  dreamed  for  nights  of  seas 

that  break  in  alien  foam 
And  of  magic  cities  that  climb   and  climb  with 

dome  on  golden  dome 
And    I'd  rather   be  a  beggar   that    crawls   along 

some  strange,  far  street 
Than  living  here  where  I  rise  each  day  to  sit  in 

the  selfsame  seat, 
To  look  in  the  face  that  is  always  the  same  at 

the  stale,  familiar  board, 
What  though  the  granaries  burst  with  corn  and 

the  wine-jar  brims  to  be  poured! 
My  lad,  I  see  that  you  won't  be  moved,  so  here 

is  your  father's  hand, 
And  whenever  you  tire  of  ships  and  ports  and 

yearn  for  the  good  home-land, 
Wearied  to  death  of  the  waves  that  toss  forever 

and  ever  about, 
Come  home,   so   ragged   the  dogs   forget,  —  and 

you'll  find  the  latchstring  out! 


£146] 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  ELDER 
BROTHER 

_l  AM  the  Elder  Brother;   you've  heard  of  the 

Prodigal  Son, 
But  little  of  me,  I'll  warrant,  who  stuck  till  the 

job  was  done, 

While  he  was  off  carousing  at  Caesarea  and  Tyre 
With    dissolute    dancing    women    to    sound    of 

tabour  and  lyre. 
I  am  the  Elder  Brother;    I   brought  the  sheep 

to  the  fold 
When,  spite  of  the  wool   he  carried,  the  black 

ram  shivered  with  cold, 
When   frost  gleamed  white  on  the   roof-tops   as 

thick  as  a  fall  of  snow 
And  the  great,  pale  star  of  evening  shone  like  a 

lamp  hung  low. 
I  am  the  Elder  Brother;    I  worked  till  far  in  the 

night 
To   see   that   the   cows   were    foddered    and    the 

horses  bedded  right; 
The  Boy,  he  took  his  portion   and  scattered  it 

far  and  near,  — 

But  I  held  on  to  my  wages  to  buy  more  farming- 
gear, 
And  I  looked  about  for  a  woman,  and  married, 

and  settled  down 
And  kept  so  busy  I've  only  gone  twice  of  a  year 

to  town. 


I  am  the  Elder  Brother;   when  HE  came  strolling 

back 
I    strove    to    send    him    packing    to    follow    his 

former  track, 
Yes,  I  who  had  heaved  and  lifted  along  with  the 

other  men, 
I   urged  the  Old  Man  blackly  to  let  him  shift 

again.  .  .  . 
And   ever   I   grew   bitter   to   see   that   the   right 

was  done 
To   me,   the   Elder   Brother    in   re    the   Prodigal 

Son, 
And   each   plea   knotted   me  harder,    I   stood   as 

firm  as  a  rock  - 
Till    one    day    down    in    the    village    I    heard    a 

Young  Man  talk 
(A  queer  young  chap  from  somewhere  .  .  .  folk 

said  from  Galilee) 
Of  God  .  .  .  and    Love  .  .  .  and  Brothers  .  .  . 

and  He  seemed  to  speak  to  me 
As  He  told  of  the  lost  sheep  straying  far  from 

the  wonted  track,  — 
For  only  that  day,  a  fortnight,  I  brought  one  in 

on  my  back, 
And   I   hadn't   stopped   to   chide   it,   but   I   had 

carried  it  in  - 
And  I  saw  I'd  treated  it  better  than  my  own 

blood  and  kin; 


And    I   went  back   home,   and  was  decent,   and 

joined  the  lad  at  the  fire 
And  I  even  enjoyed  his  stories,  though  I  knew 

he  was  half  a  liar!  .  .  . 
But  I'd  like  to  know  what  happened  to  the  Lad 

who  was  young  as  he, 
Who  talked  so  plainly  to  people  that  He  only 

spoke  to  me! 


A  FANTASY  OF  HEAVEN 

I  ERHAPS  he  plays  with  cherubs  now, 
Those  little,  golden  boys  of  God, 

Bending,  with  them,  some  silver  bough, 
The  while  a  seraph,  head  a-nod, 

Slumbers  on  guard;    how  they  will  run 
And  shout,  if  he  should  wake  too  soon,  — 

As  fruit  more  golden  than  the  sun 
And  riper  than  the  full-grown  moon, 

Conglobed  in  clusters,  weighs  them  down, 
Like  Atlas  heaped  with  starry  signs; 

And,  if  they're  tripped,  heel  over  crown, 
By  hidden  coils  of  mighty  vines,  — 

Perhaps  the  seraph,  swift  to  pounce, 

Will  hale  them,  vexed,  to  God  —  and  He 

Will  only  laugh,  remembering,  once 
He  was  a  boy  in  Galilee! 


HIGHWAYMAN'S  SONG 

A  HERE'S  a  smell  of  burning  wood  in  the  air 

That  comes  with  the  turning  year, 
The  road  unwinds  in  a  silver  coil 

As  the  autumn  moon  rides  clear 
Of  a  patch  of  cloud,  —  and  there,  etched  sheer, 

Swings  the  coach,  through  a  burst  of  light.  .  .  . 
O,  a  harvest  of  Louis  D'or  is  ours, 
A  flood  of  golden  sovereigns  is  ours 

If  we  screw  our  courage  tight; 
With  a  heigh  and  a  ho 
As  we  rob  'em  so 

In  the  gaze  of  the  great,  white  moon,  — 
Though  every  thief  has  his  piece  of  rope, 
Every  thief  has  his  piece  of  rope 

That  hangs  him,  late  or  soon. 
Now  there  isn't  a  game  in  all  the  earth 

That  only  one  can  play; 
The  blackest  of  crimes  needs  fellowship 

To  hearten  or  gainsay,  — 
And  we  are  rollicking,  singing  lads, 

Although  we'll  get  for  our  pains 
A  gibbet  on  a  bleak  cross-road 

To  swing  on  the  wind  in  chains.  .  .  . 
O,  the  stage  draws  near  and  the  moon  rides  clear 

As  we  wait  where  the  shadows  lurk,  — 
And,  bursting  forth,  we  make  'em  stand, 
All  in  a  row  we  make  'em  stand 

With  many  a  jest  and  quirk, 


As  with  heigh  and  ho 
We  rob  'em  so 

In  the  gaze  of  the  great,  white  moon, 
Though  every  thief  has  his  piece  of  rope, 
Every  thief  has  his  piece  of  rope 

That  hangs  him,  late  or  soon. 


THE  MADMAN 


i 


HAD  a  vision  in  the  night: 
That  vast  mysterious  something, 
That  which  hangs  imminent  in  orchestras, 
That  thing  which  every  human  heart  expects, 
I  dreamed  had  happened  to  me; 
Sometimes  I  felt  it  hanging  over  me 
Like  the  shadow 
Of  enormous  catastrophe, 
And  then  again  it  was  the  liberation 
From  everything, 
The  unpremeditated  event 
That  hovers,  infinite,  over  every  man.  .  .  . 

No,  it  is  not  death, 
Nor  love, 

Nor  fame,  success,  nor  wealth: 
These  are  but  paltry  things, 
The     sparrow's     wing     before     the     archangel's 
flight.  .  .  . 

Day  after  day  I  felt  that  it  would  happen 

Of  which  all  mankind  feel  the  imminence 

As    Christians    dream    a    great,    red     Judgment 

Day 
And  dip  their  lives  into  its  dreadful  color.  .  .  . 


And  now  it  must  have  happened 

To  me,  at  last; 

The  rosy  nakedness  of  immortality, 

Or  something  kin  to  that, 

Has  fallen  over  me: 

I  am  all  ecstacy, 

And  cannot  give  it  words.  .  .  . 

And  yet  they  lead  me  off, 
One  upon  either  side, 
Saying  that  I  am  mad! 


THE  DEAD  LOVER 


I 


AM  out  here  in  the  rain; 
O,  my  love,  let  me  in 
And  tomorrow  the  parson 
Will  shrive  us  of  sin. 

O,  woe's  me,  my  love, 

There's  a  man  with  you  there, 
With  his  mouth  on  your  mouth 

And  his  hand  on  your  hair; 

And  you're  happy,  and  laugh,  — 
And  the  lamplight  glows  red.  . 

So  soon  I'm  forgotten 
I  think  I  am  dead! 


THE  DISEMBODIED 


i 


NVISIBLE,  yet  real  as  air,— 
My  instant  foot  is  everywhere. 
The  cold's  sharp  lash  no  more  may  sting 
Nor  darkness  bid  me  fold  my  wing. 
Earth  cumbrance  of  the  five-fold  sense 
Has  widened  to  omniscience. 
Swifter  than  hope  my  foot  can  race 
Unto  the  other  side  of  space, 
And  I  may  see  from  where  I  stand 
God  poise  creation  in  his  hand: 
Worlds  flash  and  glow  like  firefly  light, 
The  shadow  of  his  face  their  night; 
And  now  I  glimpse  his  dawning  smile 
Light  up  a  bank  of  suns  the  while. 


TRUTH  AND  LIE 

AFTER  THE   PERSIAN 


H 


E  who  loves  the  truth  must  have 
Ever  at  hand  a  saddled  steed 
To  serve  his  instant  need. 

He  who  thinks  the  truth  must  keep 
His  foot  into  the  stirrup  thrust 
Lest  he  be  ground  to  dust. 

He  who  speaks  the  truth  must  grow 

Wings  back  of  either  arm 

To  lift  him  high  from  harm.  .  .  . 

But  he  who  lives  the  lie  has  need 
Of  neither  stirrup,  steed, 
Nor  wings  about  his  head  — 
For  he's  already  dead! 


THE   BOOTH  OF  HAPPINESS 

A  HERE  was  once  an  unhappy  man 

Who  had  a  bazaar  in  the  east 
Where  he  carved  little  ivory  toys 
Of  elephant,  god,  and  priest. 

The  children  gathered  and  gaped, 
And  lovers  paused  as  they  went: 

There  were  crystal  dwarfs  with  staves 
And  grotesque  images  pent 

In  beryl  and  chrysolite; 

There  were  tumblers  poising  a  fan; 
And  here  was  a  bird,  and  there 

A  bear  that  danced  with  a  man.  .  . 

The  man  bent  low  in  his  booth 
Plying  and  plying  his  trade 

To  bury  the  woes  of  his  life 

In  the  queer  little  toys  he  made; 

And  the  people  bought  and  bought, 
The  street  was  full  of  their  press  — 

And  they  named  the  man's  bazaar 
"The  Booth  Of  Happiness!" 


UNNUMBERED  WORLDS 


u, 


NNUMBERED  worlds  flash  round  unnum 
bered  suns: 

World-generations  battle,  labour,  cease, 
And  millions  go  down  to  the  final  peace 
Through  all  the  Starry  Vast,  while  on  there  runs 
Fierce  generation  still,   and  little  ones 
Clap  tiny  palms  on  million  mothers'  knees  — 
Themselves  to  toil  and  strive  till  death's  release 
And  from  their  loins  pour  newer  millions. 
From  time  to  time  all  Space  doth  halt  and  cry 
On  Thee,  O  Life,  —  for  it  would  gladly  know 
Whence  they  have  come  and  whither  they  must 

go  — 

Then  a  star  falls,   and  silence  gives  reply.  „  ,  . 
No  answer  else!  —  and  Nature  trudges  on 
With  death  and  life  and  sunset,  night  and  dawn. 


CIS9H 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 


IT 


is  vacant  in  the  daylight, 
There  is  nothing  living  there. 
But  at  night  the  foot  of  Something 
Goes  up  and  down  the  stair. 

There's  a  fence  of  rusted  pickets; 

In  the  yard  the  tangled  grass 
Clutches  at  the  feet  in  warning: 

Every  pane's  a  shattered  glass; 

On  a  plot  where  burst  a  fountain 

Prone  a  marble  naiad  lies 
Staring  up  in  sun  or  starshine 

With  unseeing,  soulless  eyes; 

Ancient  weeds  have  choked  the  flowers 
That  in  patterned  order  stood; 

Step  by  step  with  sure  encroachment, 
Marches  in  the  gloomy  wood.  .  .  . 

It  is  vacant  in  the  daylight, 
There  is  nothing  living  there; 

For  at  night  the  foot  of  SOMETHING 
Goes  up  and  down  the  stair. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  LIVING 
DEAD 


I 


THOUGHT  that  when  I  struck  him  down, 
Why,  that  would  be  the  end 
Of  him  who  stole  my  Love  away, 
That  false,  betraying  friend. 

I  gave  him  no  time  for  a  prayer 

And  no  space  for  a  priest.  .  .  . 
I  flung  him  over  in  the  moat 

To  make  the  fishes'  feast. 

Yet,  even  as  I  turned  away 

And  thought,  "now  all  is  well," 
A  night-thing  sent  a  doleful  cry 

Like  a  far  voice  from  hell! 


They  searched  for  many  a  torch-lit  night, 

For  many  a  windy  day 
Till  a  peasant  said  he'd  seen  him  go 

As  he  had  ridden  away.  .  .  . 

Full  loud  I  laughed  .  .  .  but  when  I  saw 

The  stable  open  wide, 
I  feared  the  Dead  who  would  not  die,  — 

His  horse  was  not  inside. 


Then  came  my  woman  he  had  won, 

Saying,  "your  ring  of  worth 
He  took,  last  night.     Behold,  no  more 

It  holds  my  finger's  girth.  ..." 

O,  worse  than  death  the  look  he  gave, 

And  none  the  words  he  said 
When  the  slain  man  returned,  one  night, 

And  stood  beside  my  bed.  .  .  . 

I  sent  for  the  sad,  grey,  silent  priest, 

And,  as  he  harked  to  me, 
Horror  rose  in  his  face  like  the  dawn 

Over  a  still,  grey  sea: 

Alas,  alas,  I've  learned  too  late 

Now  that  my  days  are  sped 
That  strike  with  daggers  all  you  may, 

The  Dead  will  not  lie  dead.  .  .  . 

And  I  hear  them  building  all  day  long 

And  far  into  the  night 
A  tall  thing  with  a  dangling  rope 

Upon  a  sky-black  height. 


THE  GAME  WARDEN'S   SON 

P  ATHER,  O  father,  what  have  you  done 
With  Ruddy  Kervil,  the  Warden's  son? 

-  He  has  gone  forth  under  the  sky 
To  watch  the  young  grey  goshawks  fly. 

O  father,  father,  what  have  you  done 
With  the  Game  Warden's  only  son? 

-  He  has  gone  forth  to  fish  for  me 

Where  the  bitter  marsh  runs  black  to  the  sea, 

O  father,  my  father,  what  have  you  done 
With  a  grey-faced  woman's  only  son? 

-  He  has  gone  forth  to  hunt,  alone, 
The  deer  that  drink  by  Yarbury  Stone. 

My  father,  my  father,  what  have  you  done 
With  my  own  lover,  the  Warden's  son? 
—  By  Yarvel  Mere  is  a  track  of  red.  .  .  . 
And  the  crows  are  gathering  overhead. 


THE  BETRAYAL 

HERE   were    miles  and  miles   of  still,  grey 
heath 

Where  never  a  wind  did  run, 
And  there  was  a  great  cloud  in  the  sky 
Red  with  the  sinking  sun, 

And  the  tufts  of  grass  stood  black  and  high 

With  the  sun's  last  edge  behind, 
While  a  small  grey  bird  slipped  through  the  air 

Like  a  dream  from  a  madman's  mind. 

Then,  far  away,  a  trumpet  shrilled 

Like  the  cry  of  a  new-born  child, 
And  I  saw  the  little  moving  stars 

Of  their  spearheads  tossing  wild.  .  .  . 

"What  voices  are  those,  my  own  dear  love?" 
"Tis  the  waves  of  the  sea  that  roar!" 

"Nay,  we  are  miles  and  miles  away 
From  the  sea  and  the  good  sea's  shore, 

Where  the  hermit  dwells  who  will  make  us  one, 
Where  I  fear  we  never  shall  win!" 

I  leaned  above  the  horse's  mane 
And  I  drove  the  rowels  in.  ... 

"I  think  I  hear  my  father's  voice." 
"Tis  a  bittern  from  yonder  mere!" 

Then  an  arrow  sped  high  overhead,  — 
It  whistled  high  and  clear, 


And  after  it  leaped  her  father's  voice, 
"Light  down,  light  down  like  a  man, 

And  fight  with  any  one  of  us.  ... 

You  have  broken  the  law  of  the  clan!" 

"Nay,  heed  them  not,"  my  true  love  spoke, 
"I  have  broken  the  law  of  the  clan, 

An  ancient  law,  and  a  cruel  law  - 

But  they've  called  me,  man  to  man,  — 

Yet  how  could  they  know  the  way  of  our  flight, 

The  way  of  our  flight  so  soon  ? 
For  as  yet  the  sky  is  dark  with  the  lack 

Of  the  still  unrisen  noon.  .  .  . 

Sir  Hugh  is  the  only  knight  that  knows, 

A  friend  both  tried  and  true!" 
Then  I  saw  in  the  front,  by  her  father's  side, 

That  traitor  and  thief,  Sir  Hugh! 

"I  have  twenty  knights  will  cleave  your  skull, 

Oh,  stealer  of  women  so  bold ! " 
"There  is  only  one  knight  I  would  slay  in  fight  — 

The  bloodless  thief  that  told!" 

With  that  her  father  laughed  a  laugh 
And  smote  Sir  Hugh  on  the  knee.  .  .  . 

"You  were  quick  to  tell  ...  by  the  bottom  of 

Hell, 
Be  as  quick  to  fight!"  quo*  he. 

£165:1 


We  couched  our  spears  as  the  bright  moon  rose; 

We  fought  right  lustily,  - 
I  found  him  brave  as  he  was  false, 

Right  false  and  brave  was  he; 

But  I  caught  him  at  last  with  a  sudden  blast 

Of  blows  on  the  head  and  breast, 
And  I  tore  away  his  morion 

With  a  tug  at  the  helmet's  crest.  .  .  . 

His  still  grey  face  shone  white  in  the  moon, 

His  still  grey  face  shone  white 
As  I  knelt  by  his  side  before  he  died, 

There  in  the  still  grey  night.  .  .  . 

"Sir  Hugh  that  was  my  life-long  friend 

Beneath  both  moon  and  sun, 
O,  why  have  you  done  the  foulest  deed 

That  ever  friend  has  done?" 

"Lean  down,  lean  <lown  right  secretly, 

As  once  you  held  me  dear, 
For  the  thing  that  I  would  tell  to  you 

No  other  man  must  hear: 

You  knew  all  things  I  thought  or  knew,  — 

One  thing  you  did  not  know; 
The  thing  that  I  hid  from  you  in  my  heart 

That  brings  us  both  to  woe.   .  .  ." 

CI66] 


Lower  I  leaned  in  the  low  red  grass 

To  hear  the  words  he  sighed 
From  his  death-slow  lips,  "I  loved  her  too, 

God  .  .  .  knows!"  so  my  false  friend  died. 


HE  DID  NOT  KNOW 


H 


E  did  not  know  that  he  was  dead: 
He  walked  along  the  crowded  street, 
Smiled,  tipped  his  hat,  nodded  his  head 
To  friends  he  chanced  to  meet,  — 

And  yet  they  passed  him  quietly  by 

With  an  unknowing,  level  stare; 
They  met  him  with  an  abstract  eye 

As  if  he  were  the  air. 

"Some  sorry  thing  has  come  to  pass," 
The  Dead  Man  thought  ...  he  hurried  home 

And  found  his  wife  before  the  glass 
Dallying  with  a  comb.  .  .  . 

He  found  his  wife  all  dressed  in  black; 

He    kissed    her    mouth  ...  he    stroked    her 

head.  .  .  . 
"Men  act  so  strange  since  I've  come  back 

From  over  there,"  he  said. 

She  said  no  word  .  .  .  she  only  smiled; 

But  now  he  heard  her  speak  his  name, 
And  saw  her  study,  grief-beguiled, 

His  picture  in  a  frame.  .  .  . 

Then  he  remembered  that  black  night 

And  the  great  shell-burst  wide  and  red.  .  .  . 

The  sudden  plunging  into  light  — 
And  knew  that  he  was  dead! 


THE  FIDDLER 

HY,  upon  this  lovely  day, 
Must  that  wretched  fiddler  play,  — 
All  the  sky  one  stainless  blue,  - 
Every  note  he  strikes,  untrue!  .  .  . 
Summer  deep  embowered  in  flowers, 
Silent  music  in  the  hours, 
In  the  east  a  feather  moon,  - 
And  —  that  fiddler  out  of  tune! 
God's  hand  never  slipped  to  mar 
At  the  making  of  a  star; 
There's  no  true  excuse  yet  made 
For  the  bungler  at  his  trade! 


STREET  LAMPS 

GREENWICH    VILLAGE 

OOFTLY  they  take  their  being,  one  by  one, 
From  the  lamp-lighter's  hand,  after  the  sun 
Has  dropped  to  dusk  .  .  .  like  little  flowers  they 

bloom 
Set  in  long  rows  amid  the  growing  gloom.  .  .  . 

Who  he  who  lights  them  is,  I  do  not  know, 
Except  that,  every  eve,  with  footfall  slow 
And  regular,  he  passes  by  my  room 
And  sets  his  gusty  flowers  of  light  a-bloom. 


A  POETS   ROOM 

GREENWICH    VILLAGE    IQI2 


I 


HAVE  a  table,  cot  and  chair 
And  nothing  more.     The  walls  are  bare 
Yet  I  confess  that  in  my  room 
Lie  Syrian  rugs  rich  from  the  loom, 
Stand  statues  poised  on  flying  toe, 
Hang  tapestries  with  folk  a-flow 
As  the  wind  takes  them  to  and  fro. 
And  workman  Fancy  has  inlaid 
My  walls  with  ivory  and  jade. 

Though  opening  on  a  New  York  street 

Full  of  cries  and  hurryng  feet 

My  window  is  a  faery  space 

That  gives  on  each  imagined  place; 

Old  ruins  lost  in  desert  peace; 

The  broken  fanes  and  shrines  of  Greece; 

Aegean  islands  fringed  with  foam; 

The  everlasting  tops  of  Rome; 

Troy  flowing  red  with  skyward  flame, 

And  every  spot  of  hallowed  fame. 

Outside  my  window  I  can  see 
The  sweet  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Carmel's  purple-regioned  height 
And  Sinai  clothed  with  stars  and  night. 


But  this  is  told  in  confidence, 
So  not  a  word  when  you  go  hence, 
For  if  my  landlord  once  but  knew 
My  attic  fetched  so  large  a  view, 
The  churl  would  never  rest  content 
Till  he  had  raised  the  monthly  rent. 


CI723 


FAREWELL 


T 


ELL  them,  O  Sky-born,  when  I  die 
With  high  romance  to  wife, 
That  I  went  out  as  I  had  lived, 
Drunk  with  the  joy  of  life. 

Yea,  say  that  I  went  down  to  death 

Serene  and  unafraid, 
Still  loving  Song,  but  loving  more 

Life,  of  which  Song  is  made! 


CI733 


wi 

DA_ 
0V 


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N  1 6  1973  31 


LD62A-30m-2,'71 
(P2003slO)9412A-A-32 


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University  of  California 

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